I  in 


WILDERNESS 

AGNES  *C*L,AUT 


• 


THE  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE 
WILDERNESS 


THE  FREEBOOTERS  OF 

THE 

WILDERNESS 


BY 


AGNES    C.   LAUT 

Author  of 
"THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  GREAT  NORTHWEST,"  "LORDS  OF  THE  NORTH,"  ETC. 


NEW   YORK 

MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 
1910 


V 


Copyright,  1910,  by 

MOPFAT,   YARD  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 


Published  September,  1910 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    To  STRADDLE  OB  FIGHT .,    .       1 

II  AN  INTERLUDE  THAT  CAME  UNANNOUNCED     .     11 

III  THE  CHALLENGE  TO  A  LOSING  FIGHT    ...     21 

IV  STACKING  THE  CARDS 41 

V  THE  CHOICE  THAT  COMES  TO  ALL  MEN  ...     56 

VI  WHEREIN  ONE  PLAYS  AN  UNCONSCIOUS  PART  .     66 

VII  WHILE  LAW  MARKS  TIME,  CRIME  SCORES    .     .     81 

VIII  A  VICTIM  OF  LAW'S  DELAY    ......     91 

IX  RIGHT  INTO  MIGHT     .     .     .     ....     .     .  102 

X    THE  HANDY  MAN  GETS  BUSY 109 

XI  SETTING  OUT  ON  THE  LONG  TRAIL    ....  126 

XII  THE  MAJESTY  OF  THE  LAW  VEILS  ITSELF    .     .  139 

XIII  THE  MAN  ON  THE  JOB     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  156 

XIV  ON  THE  GAME  TRAIL .173 

XV  THE  DESERT       ...     N     ......  188 

XVI    BITTER.  WATERS 205 

XVII  WHERE*  THE  TRACKS  ALL  POINT  ONE  WAY     .  231 

PART  II 
XVIII    WITHOUT  MALICE 243 

XIX    BALLOTS  FOR  BULLETS 259 

XX  A  FAITH  WORKABLE  FOR  MEN  ON  THE  JOB     .  292 

XXI  THE  HAPPY  AND  TRIUMPHANT  HOME-COMING  .  305 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

XXII    A  DOWNY-LIPPED  YOUTH  IN  GRAY  FLANNELS  323 

XXIII  IT  AIN'T  THE  TRUTH  I'M  TELLIN'  You:    IT'S 

ONLY  WHAT  I'VE  HEERD    .     .     .     .     .     .  337 

XXIV  I  AM  UNCLE  SAM    .     .     / 350 

XXV    THE  QUESTION  Is— WHICH  UNCLE  SAM?    .     .  362 

XXVI    THE  AWAKENING .     .  382 

XXVII    THE  AWAKENING  CONTINUED       .     .     .     .     .  407 
XXVIII    THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  THE  WORLD  .  424 


FOREWORD 

I  HAVE  been  asked  how  much  of  this  tale 
of  modern  freebooters  is  true?  In  exactly 
which  States  have  such  episodes  occurred!  Have 
vast  herds  of  sheep  been  run  over  battlements'! 
Have  animals  been  bludgeoned  to  death;  have 
men  been  burned  alive;  have  the  criminals  not 
only  gone  unpunished  but  been  protected  by  the 
law-makers 7  Have  sheriffs  "hidden  under  the 
bed ' »  and  ' '  handy  men ' '  bluffed  the  press  !  Have 
vast  domains  of  timber  lands  been  stolen  in  blocks 
of  thousands  and  hundreds  of  thousands  of  acres 
through  "dummy"  entrymen?  Have  the  federal 
law  officers  been  shot  to  death  above  stolen  coal 
mines?  Have  Eeclamation  Engineers,  and  Land 
Office  field  men,  and  Forest  Bangers  undergone 
such  hardships  in  Desert  and  Mountain,  as  por 
trayed  here!  Have  they  not  only  undergone  the 
hardship,  but  been  crucified  by  the  Government 
which  they  served  for  carrying  out  the  laws  of 
that  Government!  In  a  word,  are  latter  day  free 
booters  of  our  Western  Wilderness  playing  the 
same  game  in  the  great  transmontane  domain  as 
the  old-time  pirates  played  on  the  high  seas?  Is 
this  a  true  story  of  "the  Man  on  the  Job"  and 

ix 


x  FOREWORD 

"the  Man  on  the  Firing  Line"  and  "the  Man 
Higher  Up"  and  the  Looters? 

I  answer  first  that  I  am  not  writing  of  twenty 
years  ago,  or  yesterday,  or  the  day  before  yester 
day,  but  to-day,  the  Year  of  our  Lord  1909-1910 
in  the  most  highly  civilized  country  the  world  has 
ever  known;  in  a  country  where  self-government 
has  reached  a  perfection  of  prosperity  and  power 
not  dreamed  by  poet  or  prophet.  The  menace  to 
self-government  from  such  national  influences  at 
work  need  not  be  described.  The  triumph  of  such 
factors  in  national  life  means  the  wresting  of  self- 
government  from  the  people  into  the  hands  of  the 
few,  a  repetition  of  the  struggle  between  the  Bob 
ber  Barons  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  the  Com 
moners. 

It  seems  almost  incredible  that  such  lawlessness 
and  outrage  and  chicanery  can  exist  in  America — • 
many  of  the  outrages  would  disgrace  Eussia  or 
Turkey — yet  every  episode  related  here  has  ten 
prototypes  in  Life,  in  Fact ;  not  of  twenty  years 
ago,  or  yesterday,  or  the  day  before  yesterday, 
but  to-day.  For  instance,  the  number  of  sheep 
destroyed  is  given  as  fifteen  thousand.  The  num 
ber  destroyed  in  two  counties  which  I  had  in 
mind  when  I  wrote  that  chapter,  by  actual  tally 
of  the  Stock  Association  for  the  past  six  years, 
is  sixty  thousand.  Last  year  alone,  five  thou 
sand  in  one  State  suffered  every  form  of  hideous 
mutilation — backs  broken,  entrails  torn  out; 
fifteen  hundred  in  an  adjoining  State  had  their 


FOREWORD  xi 

throats  cut ;  three  men  were  burned  to  death ;  one 
herder  in  a  still  more  Northern  State  was  riddled 
to  death  with  bullets. 

Or  to  take  the  case  of  the  timber  thefts,  I  refer 
to  two  hundred  thousand  acres  in  California.  I 
might  have  referred  to  a  million  and  a  half  in 
Washington  and  Oregon. 

Or  referring  to  the  mineral  lands,  I  mention 
two  thousand  acres  of  coal.  I  might  have  told 
another  story  of  fifty  thousand  acres,  or  yet  an 
other  of  three  hundred  thousand  acres  of  gold  and 
silver  lands.  When  I  narrate  the  shooting  of  a 
man  at  the  head  of  a  coal  shaft,  the  stealing  of 
Government  timber  by  the  half  million  dollars  a 
year  through  ' '  the  hatchet ' '  trick,  or  the  theft  of 
two  thousand  acres  by  "dummies,"  I  am  stating 
facts  known  to  every  Westerner  out  on  the  spot. 

In  which  States  have  these  episodes  occurred? 
Take  an  imaginary  point  anywhere  in  Central 
Utah.  Describe  a  circle  round  that  point  to  in 
clude  the  timber  and  grazing  sections  of  all  the 
Eocky  Mountain  States  from  Northern  Arizona  to 
Montana  and  Washington.  The  episodes  related 
here  could  be  true  of  any  State  inside  that  circle 
except  (in  part)  one.  Such  forces  are  at  work 
in  all  the  Mountain  States  except  (in  part)  one. 
That  one  exception  is  Utah.  Utah  has  had  and  is 
having  tribulations  of  her  own  in  the  working 
out  of  self-government ;  but,  for  reasons  that  need 
not  be  given  here,  she  has  kept  comparatively 
free  of  recent  range  wars  and  timber  steals. 


xii  FOREWORD 

This  story  was  suggested  to  me  by  a  Land  Office 
man — one  of  the  men  on  the  firing  line— who  has 
stood  the  brunt  of  the  fight  against  the  freebooters 
for  twenty  years  and  wrested  many  a  victory. 
I  may  state  that  he  is  still  in  the  Service  and  will, 
I  hope,  remain  in  it  for  many  a  year;  but  these 
episodes  are  hinged  round  the  Eanger,  rather  than 
the  Land  Office  or  Reclamation  men,  because, 
though  the  latter  are  fighting  the  same  splendid 
fight,  their  work  is  of  its  very  nature  transitory 
— dealing  with  the  beginning  of  things ;  while  the 
Banger  is  the  man  out  on  the  job  who  remains 
on  the  firing  line;  unless — as  my  Land  Office 
friend  suggested — unless  "he  gets  fired. "  As 
to  the  hardships  suffered  by  the  fighters,  to  quote 
one  of  them,  "You  bet:  only  more  so." 

Just  as  this  volume  goes  to  press,  comes  word 
of  fires  in  Washington,  Oregon,  Idaho  and  Mon 
tana,  destroying  dozens  of  villages,  hundreds  of 
lives  and  millions  of  dollars  worth  of  property 
in  the  National  Forests;  and  it  is  added — "the 
fires  are  incendiary."  Why  this  incendiarism? 
The  story  narrated  here  endeavors  to  answer  that 
question. 

The  international  incidents  thinly  disguised  are 
equally  founded  on  fact  and  will  be  recognized  by 
the  dear  but  fast  dwindling  fraternity  of  good 
old-timers.  The  mother  of  the  boy  still  lives  her 
steadfast  beautiful  creed  on  the  Upper  Missouri; 
and  the  old  frontiersman  still  lives  on  the  Sas 
katchewan,  one  of  the  most  picturesque  and  he- 


FOREWORD  xiii 

roic  figures  in  the  West  to-day.  I  may  say  that 
both  missionaries  support  their  schools  as  inci 
dentally  revealed  here,  without  Government  aid 
through  their  own  efforts.  Also,  it  was  the  stal 
wart  man  from  Saskatchewan  who  was  sent 
searching  the  heirs  to  the  estate  of  an  embittered 
Jacobite  of  1745;  and  those  heirs  refused  to  ac 
cept  either  the  wealth  or  the  position  for  the  very 
reasons  set  forth  here.  Calamity's  story,  too, 
is  true — tragically  true,  though  this  is  not  all,  not 
a  fraction  of  her  life  story ;  but  her  name  was  not 
Calamity. 


PAET  I 
THE  MAN  ON  THE  JOB 


FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE 
WILDERNESS 

CHAPTEE  I 

TO    STRADDLE    OB   FIGHT 

"Well,"  she  asked,  "are  you  going  to  straddle 
or  fight  1" 

How  like  a  woman,  how  like  a  child,  how  typ 
ical  of  the  outsider's  shallow  view  of  any  struggle! 
As  if  all  one  had  to  do — was  stand  up  and  fight ! 
Mere  fighting — that  was  easy;  but  to  fight  to  the 
last  ditch  only  to  find  yourself  beaten !  That  gave 
a  fellow  pause  about  bucking  the  challenge  of 
everyday  life. 

Wayland  punched  both  fists  in  the  jacket 
pockets  of  his  sage-green  Service  suit,  and  kicked 
a  log  back  to  the  camp  fire  that  smouldered  in 
front  of  his  cabin.  If  she  had  been  his  wife  he 
would  have  explained  what  a  fool-thing  it  was  to 
argue  that  all  a  man  had  to  do  was  fight.  Or  if 
she  had  belonged  to  the  general  class — women — 
he  could  have  met  her  with  the  condescending  si 
lence  of  the  general  class — man ;  but  for  him,  she 
had  never  belonged  to  any  general  class. 

She  savored  of  his  own  Eastern  World,  he  knew 

1 


*2--V-  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

that,  though  he  had  met  her  in  this  Western  Back 
of  Beyond  half  way  between  sky  and  earth  on  the 
Holy  Cross  Mountain.  Wayland  could  never 
quite  analyze  his  own  feelings.  Her  presence  had 
piqued  his  interest  from  the  first.  When  we  can 
measure  a  character,  we  can  forfend  against  sur 
prises — discount  virtues,  exaggerate  faults,  strike 
a  balance  to  our  own  ego;  but  when  what  you 
know  is  only  a  faint  margin  of  what  you  don't 
know,  a  siren  of  the  unknown  beckons  and  lures 
and  retreats. 

She  had  all  of  what  he  used  to  regard  as  cul 
ture  in  the  old  Eastern  life,  the  jargon  of  the  col 
leges,  the  smattering  of  things  talked  about,  the 
tricks  and  turns  of  trained  motions  and  emotions ; 
but  there  was  a  difference.  There  was  no  pre 
tence.  There  was  none  of  the  fire-proof  self- 
complacency — Self-sufficiency,  she  had,  but  not 
self-righteousness.  Then,  most  striking  contra 
distinction  of  all  to  the  old-land  culture,  there 
was  unconsciousness  of  self — face  to  sunlight,  ra 
diant  of  the  joy  of  life,  not  anaemic  and  putrid  of 
its  own  egoism.  She  didn't  talk  in  phrases 
thread-bare  from  use.  She  had  all  the  naked  un 
ashamed  directness  of  the  West  that  thinks  in 
terms  of  life  and  speaks  without  gloze.  She 
never  side-stepped  the  facts  of  life  that  she  might 
not  wish  to  know.  Yet  her  intrusion  on  such 
facts  gave  the  impression  of  the  touch  that  heals. 

The  Forest  Eanger  had  heard  the  Valley  talk 
of  MacDonald,  the  Canadian  sheep  rancher,  be- 


TO  STRADDLE  OR  FIGHT  3 

longing  to  some  famous  fur-trade  clans  that  had 
intermarried  with  the  Indians  generations  before ; 
and  Wayland  used  to  wonder  if  it  could  be  that 
strain  of  life  from  the  outdoors  that  never  pre 
tends  nor  lies  that  had  given  her  Eastern  culture 
the  red-blooded  directness  of  the  West.  To  be 
sure,  such  a  character  study  was  not  less  inter 
esting  because  he  read  it  through  eyes  glossy  as 
an  Indian's,  under  lashes  with  the  curve  of  the 
Celt,  with  black  hair  that  blew  changing  curls  to 
every  wind.  Indian  and  Celt — was  that  it,  he 
wondered? — reserve  and  passion,  self-control  and 
yet  the  abandonment  of  force  that  bursts  its  own 
barriers  f 

She  had  not  wormed  under  the  surface  for  some 
indirect  answer  that  would  betray  what  he  in 
tended  to  do.  She  had  asked  exactly  what  she 
wanted  to  know,  with  a  slight  accent  on  the — 
you. 

"Are  you  going  to  straddle  or  fight?" 

Wayland  flicked  pine  needles  from  his  moun 
taineering  boots.  He  answered  his  own  thoughts 
more  than  her  question. 

"All  very  well  to  say— fight;  fight  for  all  the 
fellows  in  the  Land  and  Forest  Service  when  they 
see  a  steal  being  sneaked  and  jobbed!  But  sup 
pose  you  do  fight,  and  get  licked,  and  get  your 
self  chucked  out  of  the  job?  Suppose  the  fellow 
who  takes  your  place  sells  out  to  the  enemy — well, 
then;  where  are  you?  Lost  everything;  gained 
nothing!" 


4   FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

She  laid  her  panama  sunshade  on  the  timbered 
seat  that  spanned  between  two  stumps. 

"Men  must  decide  that  sort  of  thing  every  day 
I  suppose. " 

"You  bet  they  must/'  agreed  the  Eanger  with 
a  burst  of  boyishness  through  his  old-man  air, 
"and  the  Lord  pity  the  chap  who  has  wife  and 
kiddies  in  the  balance — " 

"Do  you  think  women  tip  the  scale  wrong ?" 

"Of  course  not!  They'd  advise  right — right 
— right;  fight — fight — fight,  just  as  you  do;  but 
the  point  is — can  a  fellow  do  right  by  them  if  he 
chucks  his  job  in  a  losing  fight?" 

The  old-mannish  air  had  returned.  She  fol 
lowed  the  Banger's  glance  over  the  edge  of  the 
Eidge  into  the  Valley  where  the  smoke-stacks  of 
the  distant  Smelter  City  belched  inky  clouds 
against  an  evening  sky. 

"Smelters  need  timber,"  Wayland  waved  his 
hand  towards  the  pall  of  smoke  over  the  Eiver. 
"Smelters  need  coal.  These  men  plan  to  take 
theirs  free.  Yet  the  law  arrests  a  man  for  steal 
ing  a  scuttle  of  coal  or  a  cord  of  wood.  One  law 
for  the  rich,  another  for  the  poor ;  and  who  makes 
the  law?" 

They  could  see  the  Valley  below  encircled  by 
the  Eim-Eocks  round  as  a  half -hoop,  terra-cotta 
red  in  the  sunset.  Where  the  river  leaped  down 
a  white  fume,  stood  the  ranch  houses — the  Mis 
sionary's  and  her  Father's  on  the  near  side,  the 
Senator's  across  the  stream.  Sounds  of  mouth 


TO  STRADDLE  OR  FIGHT  5 

organs  and  concertinas  and  a  wheezing  grama- 
phone  came  from  the  Valley  where  the  Senator's 
cow-boys  camped  with  drovers  come  up  from 
Arizona. 

"Dick,"  she  asked,  "exactly  what  is  the  Sena 
tor's  brand?" 

"  Circle  X" 

' i  A  circle  with  an  X  in  it  ? " 

The  Ranger  stubbornly  permitted  the  suspicion 
of  a  smile. 

"So  if  the  cattle  from  Arizona  have  only  a 
circle,  all  a  new  owner  has  to  do  is  put  an  X 
inside?" 

"And  pay  for  the  cattle,"  amplified  Way- 
land. 

"Or  a  circle  with  a  line,  put  another  line 
across?" 

"And  hand  over  the  cash,"  added  the  Ranger. 

"Or  a  circle  dot,  just  put  an  X  on  top  of  the 
dot?" 

"And  fix  the  sheriff,"  explained  the  irrelevant 
Ranger. 

"And  the  Senator  has  all  the  appointments  to 
the  Service  out  here?" 

"No — disappointments,"    corrected    Wayland. 

They  were  both  watching  the  grotesque  antics 
of  a  squirrel  negotiating  the  fresh  tips  of  a  young 
spruce.  The  squirrel  sat  up  on  his  hind  legs  and 
chittered,  whether  at  the  Senator's  brands  or 
their  heresy  it  would  be  hard  to  tell;  but  they 
both  laughed, 


6   FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Have  you  room  on  the  Grazing  Eange  for  so 
many  cattle?" 

"Not  without  crowding — " 

"You  mean  crowding  the  sheepmen,  off,"  she 
said. 

"What  is  the  use  of  talking !"  demanded  Way- 
land  petulantly.  "Neither  you  nor  I  dare  open 
our  mouths  about  it !  Tell  the  sheriff ;  your  ranch 
houses  will  be  burnt  over  your  ears  some  night ! 
Everybody  knows  what  has  happened  when  a 
sheep  herder  has  been  killed  in  an  accident,  or 
hustled  back  to  foreign  parts;  but  speak  of  it — 
you  had  better  have  cut  your  tongue  out !  Fight 
it :  you  know  what  happened  to  my  predecessors ! 
One  had  a  sudden  transfer.  Another  got  what  is 
known  as  the  bounce — you  English  people  would 
call  it  the  sack.  The  third  got  a  job  at  three 
times  bigger  salary — down  in  the  Smelter. 

"It's  all  very  well  to  preach  right — right — 
right,  Eleanor;  and  fight — fight — fight;  and  'He 
who  fights  and  runs  away,  May  live  to  fight  an 
other  day';  but  what  are  you  going  to  do  about 
it?  I  sweat  till  I  lay  the  dust  thinking  about  it; 
but  we  never  seem  to  get  anywhere.  When  we 
had  Wild  Bills  in  the  old  days,  we  formed  Vigi 
lant  Committees,  and  went  out  after  the  law 
breakers  with  a  gun ;  but  now,  we  are  a  law-abid 
ing  people.  We  are  a  law-abiding  age,  don't  you 
forget  that!  When  you  skin  a  skunk  now  days, 
you  do  it  according  to  law,  slowly,  judiciously, 
no  matter  what  the  skunk  does  to  you  meantime, 


TO  STRADDLE  OR  FIGHT  7 

even  tho'  it  get  away  with  the  chickens.  Fact 
is,  we're  so  busy  straining  at  legal  gnats  just  now 
that  we're  swallowing  a  whole  generation  of 
camels.  We  don't  risk  our  necks  any  more  to 
put  things  right — not  we;  we  get  in  behind  the 
skirts  of  law,  and  yap,  yap,  yap,  about  law  like  a 
rat  terrier,  when  we  should  be  bull  dogs  getting 
our  teeth  in  the  burglar 's  leg. 

"You  know  whose  drovers  are  rustling  cattle 
up  North  from  Arizona  ?  You  know  who  pays  the 
gang?  So  do  I!  You  don't  know  whose  cattle 
those  are:  so  don't  I!  To-morrow  when  they  are 
branded  fresh,  they'll  be  the  Senator's;  and  what 
are  you  sheep  people  going  to  do  with  this  crowd 
coming  in  from  the  outside?  The  law  says — 
equal  rights  to  all;  and  you  say — fight;  but  who 
is  going  to  see  that  the  law  is  carried  out,  unless 
the  people  awaken  and  become  a  Vigilant  Com 
mittee  for  the  Nation?  Tell  Sheriff  Flood  to  go 
out  and  round  up  those  rustlers:  he'll  hide  under 
the  bed  for  a  week,  or  'allow  he  don't  like  the 
job.'  Senator  Moyese  got  him  that  berth.  He's 
going  to  hang  on  like  a  leech  to  blood. 

"Now,  look  down  this  side!  Do  you  know  a 
quarter  section  of  that  big  timber  is  worth  from 
$10,000  to  $40,000  to  its  owners,  the  people  of 
the  United  States?  Do  you  know  you  can  build 
a  cottage  of  six  rooms  out  of  one  tree,  the  very 
size  a  workman  needs?  The  workmen  who  vote 
own  those  trees!  Do  you  know  the  Smelter 
Lumber  Company  takes  all  for  nothing,  half  a 


8        FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

million  of  it  a  year?  Do  you  know  that  Smelter, 
itself,  is  built  on  two-thousand  acres  of  coal  lands 
— stolen — stolen  from  the  Government  as  clearly 
as  if  the  Smelter  teams  had  hauled  it  from  a 
Government  coal  pit?  Do  you  know  there  isn't 
a  man  in  the  Land  Office  who  hasn't  urged  and 
urged  and  urged  the  Government  to  sue  for  resti 
tution  of  that  steal,  and  headquarters  pretend  to 
be  doubtful  so  that  the  Statute  of  Limitations 
will  intervene!" 

On  the  inner  side,  the  Ridge  dropped  to  an 
Alpine  meadow  that  billowed  up  another  slope 
through  mossed  forests  to  the  snow  line  of  the 
Holy  Cross  Mountains.  What  the  girl  saw  was 
a  sylvan  world  of  spruce,  then  the  dark  green 
pointed  larches  where  the  jubilant  rivers  rioted 
down  from  the  snow.  "What  the  man  saw  was — a 
Challenge. 

"See  those  settlers'  cabins  at  an  angle  of  forty- 
five?  Need  a  sheet  anchor  to  keep  'em  from 
sliding  down  the  mountain !  Fine  farm  land,  isn't 
it?  Makes  good  timber  chutes  for  the  land  loot 
ers!  We've  to  pass  and  approve  all  homesteads 
in  the  National  Forests.  You  may  not  know  it; 
but  those  are  homesteads.  You  ask  Senator 
Moyese  when  he  weeps  crocodile  tears  'bout  the 
poor,  poor  homesteader  run  off  by  the  Forest 
Eangers!  If  the  homesteader  got  the  profits, 
there 'd  be  some  excuse;  but  he  doesn't.  He  gets 
a  hired  man's  wages  while  he  sits  on  the  home 
stead;  and  when  he  perjures  himself  as  to  date 


TO  STRADDLE  OR  FIGHT  9 

of  filing,  lie  may  get  a  five  or  ten  extra,  while 
your  $40,000  claim  goes  to  Mr.  Fat-Man  at  a 
couple  of  hundreds  from  Uncle  Sam's  timber 
limits;  and  the  Smelter  City  Herald  thunders 
about  the  citizen's  right  to  homestead  free  land, 
about  the  Federal  Government  putting  up  a  fence 
to  keep  the  settler  off.  That  fellow — that  fellow 
in  the  first  shack  can't  speak  a  word  of  English. 
Smelter  brought  a  train  load  of  'em  in  here ;  and 
they've  all  homesteaded  the  big  timbers,  a  thou 
sand  of  'em,  foreigners,  given  homesteads  in  the 
name  of  the  free  American  citizen.  Have  you 
seen  anything  about  it  in  the  newspaper?  Well 
— I  guess  not.  It  isn't  a  news  feature.  We're 
all  full  up  about  the  great  migration  to  Canada. 
We  like  to  be  given  a  gold  brick  and  the  glad 
hand.  Of  course,  they'll  farm  that  land.  One 
man  couldn't  clear  that  big  timber  for  a  home 
stead  in  a  hundred  years.  Of  course,  they  are 
not  homesteading  free  timber  for  the  big  Smelter. 
Of  course  not!  They  didn't  loot  the  redwoods 
of  California  that  way — two  hundred  thousand 
acres  of  'em — seventy-five  millions  of  a  steal. 
Hm!"  muttered  Wayland.  "Calls  himself  Moy- 
ese — Moses!  Senator  Smelter!  Senator  Thief! 
Senator  Beef  Steer—" 

She  laughed.  "I  like  your  rage!  Look! 
What's  that  mountain  behind  the  cabin  doing?" 

' ' Shine  on  pale  moon,  don't  mind  me,"  laughed 
Wayland;  but  suddenly  he  stopped  storming. 

The  slant  sunlight  struck  the  Holy  Cross  Moun- 


10  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

tain  turning  the  snow  gullies  pure  gold  against 
the  luminous  peak.  Just  for  a  moment  the  white 
cornice  of  snow  forming  the  bar  of  the  apparent 
cross  flushed  to  the  Alpine  glow,  flushed  blood- 
red  and  quivering  like  a  cross  poised  in  mid-air. 
An  invisible  hand  of  silence  touched  them  both. 
The  sunset  became  a  topaz  gate  curtained  by 
clouds  of  fire  and  lilac  mist;  while  overhead 
across  the  indigo  blue  of  the  high  rare  mountain 
zenith  slowly  spread  and  faded  a  light — ashes  of 
roses  on  the  sun  altar  of  the  dead  day. 


CHAPTER  II 

AN    INTEELUDE    THAT   CAME   UNANNOUNCED 

Wayland  stopped  storming.  His  cynical  laugh 
came  back  an  echo  hard  to  his  own  hearing. 
Was  It  speaking  the  same  mute  language  to  her 
It  had  spoken  to  him  since  first  he  came  to  the 
Holy  Cross?  The  violet  shadows  of  twilight 
slowly  filled  with  a  primrose  mist,  with  a  rapt 
hush  as  of  the  day's  vespers.  The  great  quiet 
of  the  mountain  world  wrapped  them  round  as 
in  an  invisible  robe  of  worship. 

Always,  as  the  red  flush  ran  the  spectrum 
gamut  of  the  yellows  and  oranges  and  greens  and 
blues  and  purples  to  the  solitary  star  above  the 
opaline  peak,  he  had  wanted  to  wait  and  see — < 
what?  He  did  not  know.  It  had  always  seemed, 
if  he  watched,  the  primrose  veil  would  lift  and 
release  some  phantom  with  noiseless  tread  on  a 
ripple  of  night  wind.  In  his  lonely  vigils  he 
used  to  listen  for  all  the  little  bells  of  the  nodding 
purple  heather  to  begin  ringing  some  sort  of  pixie 
music,  or  for  the  flaming  tongues  of  the  painter's 
flower  to  take  voice  in  some  chorus  that  would 
beat  time  to  the  rhythm  of  woodland  life  fluting 
the  age-old  melodies  of  Pan. 

11 


12      FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

You  would  look  and  look  at  the  winged  flames 
of  light  swimming  and  shimmering  and  melting 
outlines  in  the  opal  clouds  there,  till  almost  it 
became  a  sort  of  Mount  of  Transfiguration,  of 
free  uncabined  roofless  night-dreams  camped  be 
neath  the  sheen  of  a  million  stars. 

You  would  listen  and  listen  to  the  mountain 
silence — rare,  hushed,  silver  silence — till  al 
most  you  could  hear;  but  until  to-night  it  had 
always  been  like  the  fall  of  the  snow  flake.  You 
could  never  be  quite  sure  you  heard,  though  there 
was  no  mistaking  a  mass  of  several  million  years 
of  snow  flakes  when  they  thundered  down  in 
avalanche  or  broke  a  ledge  with  the  boom  of 
artillery. 

Now,  at  last — was  it  the  end  of  a  million  years 
of  pre-existence  waiting  for  this  thing?  Now,  at 
last,  Wayland  realized  that  the  quiet  fellowship, 
the  common  interests,  the  satisfaction  of  her 
presence,  the  aptitude  their  minds  had  of  always 
rushing  to  meet  halfway  on  the  same  subject,  had 
somehow  massed  to  a  something  within  himself 
that  set  his  blood  coursing  with  jubilant  swiftness. 

He  looked  at  the  rancher's  daughter.  What 
had  happened?  She  was  the  same,  yet  not 
the  same.  Her  eyes  were  awaiting  his.  They 
did  not  flinch.  They  were  wells  of  light;  a 
strange  new  light;  depth  of  light.  Had  the  veil 
lifted  at  last?  The  welter  of  sullen  anger  sub 
sided  within  him.  The  wrapped  mystery  of  the 


AN  INTERLUDE  13 

mountain  twilight  hushed  speech.  What  folly  it 
all  was — that  far  off  clamor  of  greed  in  the  Outer 
World,  that  wolfish  war  of  self-interest  down  in 
the  Valley,  that  clack  of  the  wordsters  darkening 
wisdom  without  knowledge !  As  if  one  man,  as  if 
one  generation  of  men,  could  stay  the  workings  of 
the  laws  of  eternal  righteousness  by  refusing  to 
heed,  any  more  than  one  man's  will  could  stop 
an  avalanche  by  refusing  to  heed  the  law  of  the 
snowflake ! 

Calamity,  the  little  withered  half-breed  woman, 
slipped  in  and  out  of  the  Forester's  cabin  tidying 
up  bachelor  confusion.  The  wind  suffed  through 
the  evergreens  in  dream  voices,  pansy-soft  to  the 
touch.  The  slow-swaying  evergreens  rocked  to 
a  rhythm  old  as  Eternity,  Druid  priests  stand 
ing  guard  over  the  sacrament  of  love  and  night. 
From  the  purpling  Valley  came  the  sibilant  hush 
of  the  Eiver.  Somewhere,  from  the  branches 
below  the  Eidge,  a  water  thrush  gurgled  a  last 
joyous  note  that  rippled  liquid  gold  through  the 
twilight. 

Life  might  have  become  the  tent  of  a  night  in 
an  Eternity — a  tent  of  sky  hung  with  stars;  the 
after-glow  a  topaz  gate  ajar  into  some  infinite 
life.  Then  Love  and  Silence  and  Eternity  had 
wrapped  them  round  as  in  a  robe  of  prayer.  He 
was  standing  above  the  dead  camp-fire.  She  was 
leaning  forward  from  the  slab  seat,  her  face  be 
tween  her  hands.  With  a  catch  of  breath,  she 


14     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

withdrew  her  eyes  from  his  and  watched  the 
long  shadows  creep  like  ghosts  across  the 
Valley. 

What  he  said  aloud  in  the  nonchalant  voice  of 
twentieth  century  youth  keeping  hold  of  himself 
was — 

"Not  bad,  is  it?"  nodding  at  the  opal  flame- 
winged  peak.  "Pretty  good  show  turned  on  free 
every  night  1 9  9 

A  meadow  lark  went  lifting  above  the  Kidge 
dropping  silver  arrows  of  song ;  and  a  little  flutter 
of  phantom  wind  came  rustling  through  the  pine 
needles. 

"I  don't  suppose,"  she  was  saying — he  had 
never  heard  those  notes  in  her  voice  before :  they 
were  gold,  gold  flute  notes  to  melt  rock-hard  self- 
control  and  touch  the  timbre  of  unknown  chords 
within — "I  don't  suppose  anything  ever  was  ac 
complished  without  somebody  being  willing  to 
fight  a  losing  battle.  Do  you?"  Wayland 
stretched  out  on  the  ground  at  her  feet. 

"Eleanor,  do  you  know,  do  you  realize — V9 

"Yes  I  know,"  she  whispered. 

And  somehow,  unpremeditated  and  half  way, 
their  hands  met. 

'  *  Something  wonderful  has  happened  to  us  both 
to-night. ' ' 

The  sheen  of  the  stars  had  come  to  her  eyes. 
She  could  not  trust  her  glance  to  meet  his.  A 
compulsion  was  sweeping  over  her  in  waves, 
drawing  her  to  him — her  free  hand  lay  on  his  hair ; 


AN  INTERLUDE  15 

her  averted  face  flushed  to  the  warmth  of  his 
nearness. 

"I  don't  suppose,  Dick,  that  right  ever  did  tri 
umph  till  somebody  was  willing  to  be  crucified. 
Men  die  of  vices  every  day ;  women  snuff  out  like 
candles.  What's  so  heroic  about  a  man  more  or 
less  going  down  in  a  good  game  fight — ?" 

He  felt  the  tremor  in  her  voice  and  her  hands, 
in  her  deep  breathing;  and  his  manhood  came  to 
rescue  their  balance  in  words  that  sounded  foolish 
enough : 

4 'So  my  old  mountain  talks  to  you,  too?  I'll 
think  of  that  when  I'm  up  here  in  my  hammock 
alone.  Oh,  you  bet,  I'll  think  of  that  hard! 
What  does  the  old  mountain  lady  say  to  you,  any 
way?  Look — when  the  light's  on  that  long  preci 
pice,  you  can  sometimes  see  a  snow  slide  come 
over  the  edge  in  a  puff  of  spray.  They  are  worst 
at  mid-day  when  the  heat  sends  'em  down;  and 
they're  bigger  on  the  back  of  the  mountain  where 
she  shelves  straight  up  and  down — " 

And  her  thought  met  his  poise  half  way. 

' 'What  does  the  old  mountain  say?  Don't  you 
know  what  science  says — how  the  snow  flakes  fall 
to  the  same  music  of  law  as  the  snow  slide,  and 
it's  the  snow  flake  makes  the  snow  slide  that  sets 
the  mountain  free,  the  gentle,  quiet,  beautiful 
snow  flake  that  sculptures  the  granite — " 

"The  gentle,  quiet — beautiful  thing,"  slowly 
repeated  the  Eanger  in  a  dream.  "That  sounds 
pretty  good  to  me." 


16   FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

He  said  no  more ;  for  he  knew  that  the  veil  had 
lifted,  and  the  voiceless  voices  of  the  night  were 
shouting  riotously.  The  wind  came  suiting 
through  the  swaying  arms  of  the  bearded  waving 
hemlocks — Druid  priests  officiating  at  some  age- 
old  sacrament.  Then  a  night-hawk  swerved  past 
with  a  hum  of  wings  like  the  twang  of  a  harp 
string. 

"Look,"  she  said,  poking  at  the  sod  with  her 
foot.  "All  the  little  clover  leaves  have  folded 
their  wings  to  sleep." 

Old  Calamity  passed  in  and  out  of  the  Eange 
cabin.  Wayland  couldn't  remember  how  from 
the  first  they  had  slipped  into  the  habit  of 
calling  each  other  by  Christian  names.  It  was  the 
old  half-breed  woman,  who  had  first  told  him  that 
the  Canadian,  Donald  MacDonald,  the  rich  sheep 
man,  had  a  daughter  travelling  in  Europe.  One 
day  when  he  had  been  signing  grazing  permits 
in  the  MacDonald  ranch  house,  he  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  piano,  that  had  been  packed  up  the 
mountains  on  mules,  standing  in  an  inner  sit 
ting  room;  and  the  walls  were  decorated  with 
long-necked  swan-necked  Gibson  girls  and  Watts' 
photogravures  and  Turner  color  prints  and 
naked  Sorolla  boys  bathing  in  Spanish  seas. 
That  was  the  beginning.  She  had  come  in  sud 
denly,  introduced  herself  and  shaken  hands. 

And  now  Wayland  felt  a  dazed  wonder  how  in 


AN  INTERLUDE  17 

the  world  they  two  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour 
— the  first  half  hour  they  had  ever  been  alone  in 
their  lives — had  conie  to  deciding  "straddle  or 
fight7 ';  but  that  was  the  unusual  thing  about  her. 
She  got  under  surfaces;  but,  until  to-night  on 
the  Holy  Cross  Mountain,  he  had  been  able  to 
laugh  at  his  own  new  sensations,  to  laugh  even 
at  an  occasional  sense  of  his  tongue  turning  to 
dough  in  the  roof  of  his  mouth. 

"Look,  what  is  that  behind  your  shoulder, 
Dick?" 

"Oh,  that,"  said  the  Forest  Eanger,  "that  is 
a  well  known,  game  old  elderly  spinster  lady 
commonly  called  the  Moon ;  and  that  other  on  the 
branch  chittering  swear  words  is  nothing  in  the 
world  but  a  Douglas  squirrel  hunting — I  think 
he  is  really  hunting — a  flea  to  mix  in  his  spruce 
tips  as  salad." 

"Do  you  know  what  he  is  saying?" 

' '  Of  course !  Cheer  up !  Cheer  up !  Chirrup ! 
He's  our  Master  Forester — caches  the  best  seed 
cones  for  us  to  steal. ' ' 

But  when  he  turned  back,  she  had  freed  her 
hands,  and  slipped  to  the  other  side  of  the  slab 
seat ;  and  Wayland — inconsistent  fellow — went  all 
abash  when  they  had  both  got  hold  of  themselves 
and  were  once  more  back  to  life  with  feet  on 
solid  earth. 

"And  is  it  straddle  or— fight?" 

She  had  put  on  her  panama  sunshade  and  was 
looking  straight  and  steadily  in  his  eyes.  The 


18  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Eanger  met  the  look,  the  eager  look  slowly  and 
deliberately  giving  place  to  determined  master- 
dom. 

"If  that  is  a  challenge,  I'll  take  it!"  Then  he 
added;  and  his  face  went  hot  as  her  own:  "As 
to  the  freebooters  of  the  Western  Wilderness 
ripping  the  bowels  out  of  public  property  out 
here,  I'll  accept  that  challenge,  too!  We'll  put 
up  a  bluff  of  a  fight,  anyway!" 

"I  didn't  mean  that,  Dick."  She  was  looking 
over  the  edge  of  the  Eidge.  "I  couldn't  give  a 
precious  gift  conditionally  if  I  wanted  to,  Dick. 
It  would  surely  give  itself  before  I  could  stop 
it.  Isn't  that  always  the  way?  I  wanted  you 
to  feel  I  would  be  with  you  in  the  fight  if  I  could. 
They  are  late.  Father  and  the  missionary,  Mr. 
Williams,  and  his  boy  were  to  have  been  here  an 
hour  ago.  I  heard  them  talking  of  your  struggle 
against  the  big  steals,  and  came  up  here  before 
them  to  wait.  They  are  coming  to  see  about 
changing  the  sheep  from  the  Holy  Cross  Kange 
to  the  Kim  Bocks." 

"I  can  hear  'em  coming,"  Wayland  leaned 
over  the  precipice.  "They  are  coming  up  the 
switch  back  now.  They  have  a  turn  or  two  to 
take — we  have  a  few  minutes  yet — Eleanor,  best 
gifts  come  unasked :  perhaps,  also,  they  go  unsent. 
Listen,  I  couldn't  hope  to  keep  the  gift  unless 
I  jumped  in  this  fight  for  right;  but  it's  a  man's 
job!  I  mustn't  desert  because  of  the  gift!  I 
mustn't  take  the  prize  before  I  finish  the  job! 


AN  INTERLUDE  19 

I  want  you  to  see  that — always  that  I  mind  my; 
p's  and  q's  and  don't  swerve  from  that  resolu 
tion.  If  I  deserted  and  went  down  from  the 
Eidge  to  the  Valley,  from  hard  to  easy,  I  wouldn't 
be  worthy  of — do  you  understand  what  I  am  try 
ing  to  say  to  you?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  You  wouldn't  be  worthy  of 
what?" 

"Of  you,"  said  Wayland. 

"Gifts?"  It  was  the  falsetto  of  a  boy's  voice 
from  the  trail  below  the  Eidge.  "Who's  talkin' 
of  gifts  and  things?" 

They  heard  the  others  ascending.  Her  woman 
instinct  caught  at  the  first  straw  to  hand. 

"Photogravures,  Fordie,  three  more  to-day. 
They  are  Watts— " 

"He  has  to  round  the  next  turn!  Never  mind! 
He  didn't  hear,"  interjected  Wayland  ir 
ritably. 

"All  the  same,"  she  said,  "I  'm  going  to  send 
one  of  those  pictures  up  to  you  for  the  cabin. 
There  is  Hope  sitting  on  top  of  the  World,  eyes 
bandaged,  harp  strings  broken — " 

"Don't  send  that  one!  Jim-jams  enough  of 
my  own  up  here!  I  want  my  Hope  clear-eyed 
even  if  she  has  to  go  it  blind  for  a  bit  as  to  you — " 

"Then  there's  Faith  sheathing  her  sword — " 

"Not  putting  away  the  Big-Stick,"  interrupted 
Wayland. 

"Then  you'll  have  to  take  the  Happy  War 
rior — s" 


20  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

"I  forget  that  one:  I've  been  up  here  four 
years,  you  know?" 

"It's  the  Soldier  asleep  on  the  Battle-Field — ' 

"You  mean  the  picture  of  the  girl  kissing  the 
man  in  his  sleep — Yes,  that  will  do  all  right  for 
me.  You  can  send  that  one— 

And  the  Missionary's  boy  came  over  the  edge 
of  the  Ridge  trail  in  a  hand  spring. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    CHALLENGE   TO   A   LOSING   FIGHT 

"Hullo,  Dick!  Who  is  talking  of  pictures 
and  things?"  The  high  falsetto  announced  the 
Missionary's  boy  of  twelve,  who  promptly  turned 
a  hand  spring  over  the  slab  bench,  never  pausing 
in  a  running  fire  of  exuberant  comment.  "Get 
on  y'r  bib  and  tucker,  Dickie!  You're  goin'  t' 
have  a  s 'prise  party — right  away!  Senator 
Moses  and  Battie  Brydges,  handy- andy-dandy, 
comin'  up  with  Dad  and  MacDonald!  Oh,  hullo, 
Miss  Eleanor,  how  d'  y'  get  here  ahead?  Did 
y'  climb?  We  met  His  Eoyal  High  Mightiness 
and  His  Nibs  goin'  to  the  cow-camp.  Say,  Miss 
Eleanor,  I  don't  care  what  they  say,  I'm  goin' 
to  take  sheep  all  by  my  lonesome  this  time,  sure ; 
goin'  t'  ride  Pinto  'cause  he's  got  a  big  tummy 
t'  keep  him  from  sinking  when  he  swims.  You 
needn't  laugh,  it's  so!  You  ask  Dad  if  a  turn- 
jack  don't  keep  a  horse  from  sinkin'!  Say — " 
sticking  forward  his  face  in  a  whisper — »  "Sen 
ator  oughtn't  to  sink — eh?" 

"You  don't  swim  sheep  unless  you^re  a  pil 
grim,"  admonished  Wayland;  but  at  that  mo 
ment,  the  Senator  himself  came  over  the  edge 

21 


22      FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

of  the  Eidge,  bloused  and  white-vested  and  out 
of  breath,  a  bunch  of  mountain  flowers  in  one 
hand,  his  felt  hat  in  the  other;  and  three  men 
bobbed  up  behind,  Indian  file,  over  the  crest  of 
the  trail,  the  Missionary,  Williams,  stepping 
lightly,  MacDonald  swarthy  and  close-lipped, 
taking  the  climb  with  the  ease  of  a  mountaineer, 
Bat  Brydges,  the  Senator's  newspaper  man,  hat 
on  the  back  of  his  head,  coat  and  vest  and  collar 
in  hand,  blowing  with  the  zest  of  a  puffing  loco 
motive. 

"Whew!"  The  Senator  dilated  expansively 
and  sank  again.  "Here  we  are  at  last! 
You  here,  Miss  Eleanor?  Evening — Wayland! 
Night  to  you,  Calamity !  How  is  the  world  using 
you  since  you  stopped  tramping  over  the  hills  ?" 
Calamity  shrank  back  to  the  cabin.  "I  thought 
this  trail  hard  as  a  climb  to  Paradise.  Now,  I 
know  it  was,"  and  the  gentleman  wheezed  a  bow 
to  Eleanor  that  sent  his  neck  creasing  to  his 
flowing  collar  and  set  his  vest  chortling. 

"What!  No  flowers — either  of  you?  You 
leave  an  old  fellow  like  me  to  gather  flowers  and 
quote  'What  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June'  and  all 
that?  What's  that  lazy  rascal  of  a  Forest  fel 
low  doing?  I  would  have  spouted  yards  of  good 
poetry  when  I  was  his  age  a  night  like  this. 
Hasn't  Wayland  told  you  the  flowers  are  the 
best  part  of  the  mountains  in  June?  Pshaw! 
Like  all  the  rest  of  them  from  the  East — stuffed 
full  of  college  chuck — can't  tell  a  daisy  from  an 


THE  CHALLENGE  23 

aster!  Takes  an  old  stager  who  never  had  your 
dude  Service  suits  on  his  back  to  know  the  secrets 
of  these  hills,  Miss  Eleanor.  Has  he  told  you 
about  the  echo?  No,  I'll  bet  you,  not;  nor  the 
gorge  in  behind  this  old  Holy  Cross;  nor  the 
cave?  Pshaw!  See  here," — showing  his  bunch 
of  wild  flowers — "if  you  want  to  know  what  a 
sly  old  sphinx  Dame  Nature  is  and  how  she's 
up  to  tricks  and  wiles  and  ways,  snow  or  shine, 
you  get  these  little  flower  people  to  whisper  their 
secrets!  Whenever  I  find  a  new  kind  on  the 
hills,  I  mark  the  place  and  have  roots  brought 
down  in  the  fall.  Now  this  little  mountain 
anemone  is  still  blooming  on  upper  slopes.  Lit 
tle  fool  of  a  thing  thinks  it's  April  'stead  of 
June,  paints  her  cheeks,  see? — like  an  old  girl 
trying  to  look  young — " 

"But  she  has  a  royal  white  heart,"  interposed 
Eleanor. 

The  Senator  looked  up  to  the  face  of  the 
rancher's  daughter  and  laughed,  a  big  soft  noise 
less  laugh  that  shook  down  inside  the  white  vest. 

"Typical  of  a  woman,  eh?  Here,  take  'em! 
Why  am  I  an  old  bachelor?  Now,  here's  the 
wind  flower;  opens  to  touch  o'  the  wind  like 
woman  to  love ;  find  'em  like  stars  on  the  bleakest 
slopes — that's  like  a  woman,  too,  eh?  And  like 
a  woman,  they  wither  when  you  pick  'em,  eh? 
And  see  these  little  cheats — pale  people — catch 
flies — know  why  they  call  'em  that?  Stuck  all 
over  with  false  honey  to  snare  the  moths — stew 


24      FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

the  poor  devils  to  death  in  sweetness — eh,  now, 
isn't  that  a  woman  for  you?"  Spreading  his 
broad  palms,  the  Senator  shook  noiselessly  at  his 
own  facetiousness. 

"They  keep  the  real  honey  for  the  royal  but 
terflies,"  suggested  Eleanor. 

6 'Exactly!  What  chance  on  earth  for  an  old 
bumble  bee  of  a  drudge  like  me  without  any  wings 
and  frills  and  things,  all  weighted  down  with 
cares  of  state?"  And  Moyese  mopped  the  moist 
ure  from  a  good  natured  red  face,  that  looked 
anything  but  weighted  down  by  the  cares  of  state. 
"You  know,  don't  you,"  he  added,  "that  the 
flies  actually  do  prefer  white  flowers;  bees  t'  th' 
blue;  butterflies,  red;  and  the  moths,  white?" 

So  this  was  the  manner  of  man  representing 
the  forces  challenging  to  the  great  national  fight, 
a  lover  of  flowers  paying  tribute  to  all  things 
beautiful ;  good-natured,  smiling,  easy-going, 
soft-speaking;  the  embodiment  of  vested  rights 
done  up  in  a  white  waist-coat.  Soldiers  of  the 
firing  line  had  fought  dragons  in  the  shape  of 
savages  and  white  bandits  in  the  early  days ;  but 
this  dragon  had  neither  horns  nor  hoofs.  It  was 
a  courtly  glossy-faced  pursuer  of  gainful  oc 
cupations  according  to  a  limited  light  and  very 
much  according  to  a  belief  that  freedom  meant 
freedom  to  make  and  take  and  break  independ 
ent  of  the  other  fellow's  rights.  In  fact,  as 
Eleanor  looked  over  the  dragon  with  its  wide 


THE  CHALLENGE  25 

strong  jaw  and  plausible  eyes  and  big  gripping 
hand,  she  very  much  doubted  whether  the  con* 
ception  had  ever  dawned  on  the  big  dome  head 
that  the  other  fellow  had  any  rights.  The  man 
was  not  the  baby-eating  monster  of  the  muck- 
rakers.  Neither  was  he  a  gentleman — he  had 
had  a  narrow  escape  from  that — the  next  gen 
eration  of  him  would  probably  be  one.  He  gave 
the  impression  of  a  passion  for  only  one  thing 
— getting.  If  people  or  things  or  laws  came  in 
the  way  of  that  getting,  so  much  the  worse  for 
them. 

Strident  laughter  blew  up  on  the  wind  from 
the  cow  camp  of  the  Arizona  drovers  in  the 
Valley. 

"Bough  rascals,"  ejaculated  Moyese  fanning 
himself  with  his  hat.  "I  wish  you  wouldn't 
wander  round  too  much  alone  when  these  drover 
fellows  are  here  from  Arizona.  Birds  of  pas 
sage,  you  know?  Sheriff  can't  pursue  'em  into 
another  State!  When  it's  pay  day,  whiskey 
flows  pretty  free — pretty  free!  Wish  you 
wouldn't  wander  alone  too  much  when  they're  up 
this  way." 

"Mr.  Senator,  I  move  we  come  to  business,  and 
leave  poetry  and  flowers  and  palaver  out  of 
it—" 

The  Senator  turned  suavely  and  faced  the  im 
patient  sheep-rancher. 

"To  be  sure!  [Let  us  get  down  to  business, 
MacDonald,  by  all  means ;  but  before  we  go  any 


26  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

farther,  let  me  ask  you  a  straight  question! 
Clearing  the  field  before  action,  Miss  Eleanor! 
Bat  come  over  here  and  entertain  Miss  Eleanor. 
Miss  MacDonald,  this  is  my  man  Friday — 
Brydges,  Miss  MacDonald:  it's  Brydges,  you 
know,  sets  us  all  down  fools  to  posterity  by  re 
porting  our  speeches  for  the  newspapers." 

Brydges  winked  as  he  got  his  limp  collar  back 
to  his  neck.  It  wasn't  his  part  to  tell  how  many 
speeches  came  in  reported  before  delivered;  how 
many  were  never  delivered  at  all. 

The  Senator  had  stopped  fanning  himself.  He 
was  caressing  his  shaven  chin  and  taking  the 
measure  of  the  rancher;  a  tall  man,  straight  and 
lithe  as  a  whip,  lean  and  clean-limbed  and 
swarthy. 

"MacDonald,  why  don't  you  take  out  your 
naturalization  papers  so  you  can  vote  at  elec 
tion!  In  the  eyes  of  the  law,  you're  still  an 
alien." 

"Alien?  What  has  that  to  do  with  paying 
grazing  fees  for  sheep  on  the  Forest  Range?" 
MacDonald 's  black  eyes  closed  to  a  tiny  slit  of 
shiny  light.  "Mr.  Senator,"  he  said  tersely, 
"how  much  do  you  want?" 

Mr.  Senator  refused  to  be  perturbed  by  the 
edge  of  that  question. 

"You  ask  Wayland  how  much  the  grazing  fee 
is.  You  know  it's  my  belief  there  ought  to  be 
no  grazing  fee.  We  stockmen  can  take  care  of 
ourselves  without  Washington  worrying — " 


THE  CHALLENGE  27 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Williams,  "you  took  such 
good  care  of  the  sheep  herders  last  spring,  some 
of  you  put  them  to  eternal  sleep." 

"We're  not  living  in  Paradise  or  Utopia," 
assented  Moyese.  "We  can  take  care  of  our  own. 
Men  who  won't  listen  to  warning  must  look  out 
for  stronger  arguments;  and  it's  a  great  deal 
quicker  than  carrying  long-drawn  legal  cases  up 
to  the  Supreme  Court.  You  sheepmen  are  ask 
ing  us  to  take  care  of  you.  I'm  asking  Mac- 
Donald  to  vote  so  he  can  take  care  of  us.  Major 
ity  rules.  What  I'm  trying  to  get  at  is  which 
side  you  are  on!  We're  not  taking  care  of  neu 
trals  and  aliens — " 

"Aliens."  The  low  tense  voice  bit  into  the 
word  like  acid.  "And  I  suppose  you're  not  tak 
ing  care  of  pea-nut  politicians  either.  My  an 
cestors  have  lived  in  this  country  since  1759. 
Mr.  Senator,  how  many  generations  have  your 
people  lived  in  this  country!" 

Eleanor  became  conscious  that  a  question  had 
been  asked  fraught  with  explosion;  but  the  Sen 
ator  smiled  the  big  soft  voiceless  smile  down  in 
his  waist-coat  as  if  not  one  of  the  group  knew 
that  memories  of  the  ghetto  had  not  faded  from 
his  own  generation. 

"We're  not  strong  on  ancestry  out  West,"  he 
rubbed  his  whiskerless  chin.  "It  goes  back  too 
often  to — "  he  looked  up  quietly  at  MacDonald, 
"to  bow  and  arrow  aristocracy,  scalps,  in  fact; 
but  as  for  myself,"  if  a  little  oily,  still  the  smile 


28      FEEEBOOTEES  OF  THE  WILDEENESS 

remained  genial,  "for  myself,  from  what  my 
name  means  in  French,  I  should  judge  we  were 
Hugenots — what  do  you  call  'em? — Psalm  sing 
ing  lot  that  came  over  in  that  big  boat,  growing 
bigger  every  year ;  boat  that  brought  all  the  true 
blues  over  here;  Mayflower — that's  what  I'm 
trying  to  say — all  our  ancestors  came  over  in  the 
Mayflower — " 

The  sheep  rancher's  thin  lips  slowly  curled  in 
a  contemptuous  smile.  "Then  I  guess  my  an 
cestors  on  one  side  of  the  house  were  chanting 
war  whoops  to  welcome  you — " 

Bat  Brydges  uttered  a  snort.  Eleanor  puck 
ered  her  brows  as  at  news.  The  Senator  was 
fanning  himself  again  with  his  hat.  Even  Way- 
land  was  smiling.  He  had  heard  political  op 
ponents  of  Moyese  say  that  dynamite  wouldn't 
disturb  the  Senator.  i  l  Only  way  you  could  raise 
him  was  yeast  cake  stamped  with  S:  two  sticks 
through  it. ' ' 

Certainly — Eleanor  was  thinking — there  was 
some  good  in  the  worst  of  dragons.  St.  George 
had  put  his  foot  on  one  ancient  beast.  Wasn't 
it  possible  to  tame  this  one,  to  tame  all  modern 
dragons,  put  a  bit  in  their  mouths  and  harness 
them  to  good  nation  building? 

"Girt  round  with  mine  enemies,  Miss  Eleanor," 
he  laughed,  "and  I  slay  them  with  the  jaw  bone 
of  an  ass." 

The  white  waist-coat  chortled ;  and  she  laughed. 
This  dragon  didn't  spout  flame  but  gentle  ridi- 


THE  CHALLENGE  29 

cule,  which  was  elusive  as  quicksilver  slipping 
through  your  fingers. 

i 'The  point  is,"  explained  the  Eanger,  coming 
forward,  "the  sheep  have  almost  grazed  off  up 
here;  at  least,  far  as  we  allow  them  to  graze — " 

"Besides,  it's  too  cold  for  the  lambs, "  effer 
vesced  the  Missionary's  boy,  bouncing  out  of  the 
woods. 

"Shut  up,  Fordie,"  ordered  Williams,  holding 
aloof. 

"Mr.  MacDonald  and  Mr.  Williams  want  to 
transfer  from  this  Divide  to  the  Mesas  above 
the  Kim  Koeks,"  continued  Wayland. 

"Well,  Mr.  Forest  Eanger,  that  is  your  busi 
ness!  The  Kim  Kocks  are  National  Forest,  tho' 
to  save  my  life,  I  have  never  seen  one  tree  on 
those  Mesas.  What  in  the  world  they  are  in  the 
National  Forest  for,  I  don't  know!  You  know 
very  well  I  think  there  oughtn't  to  be  any  Na 
tional  Forests — each  State  look  after  its  own 
job.  Have  you  issued  the  grazing  permits,  Way- 
land?  I  don't  see  that  it's  any  of  my  business." 

The  Senator  had  leisurely  seated  himself  on 
the  slab.  Eleanor  knew  now  why  he  wielded 
such  power  in  the  Valley.  He  was  human:  he 
was  the  man  in  the  street:  something  with  red 
blood  giving  and  taking  in  a  game  of  win  and 
lose  among  men.  In  a  word,  she  had  to  acknowl 
edge,  the  Dragon  of  the  Valley  was  decidedly 
likable;  and  behind  the  genial  front  were  the  big 
hands  that  would  crush;  behind  the  plausible 


30      FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

eyes,  the  craft  that  would  undermine  what  the 
hands  could  not  crush.  Anaemic  teachers  and 
preachers  might  as  well  throw  paper  wads  at  a 
wall  as  attempt  to  dislodge  this  man  with  argu 
ment.  Eight  was  an  empty  term  to  him.  Might 
he  understood ;  not  right. 

He  sat  waiting  for  them  to  go  on.  She  remem 
bered  afterwards  how  he  made  them  play  down 
from  the  first;  and  how,  all  the  time  that  he  was 
watching  them,  plans  of  his  own  were  busy  as 
shuttles  in  behind  the  plausible  eyes. 

"The  point, "  continued  Wayland,  "is  to  get 
fifteen-thousand  sheep  up  there." 

"Fifteen-thousand."  It  was  the  number,  not 
the  getting  there  that  touched  him. 

"A  deep  stone  gully  runs  between  the  Holy 
Cross  and  the  bench  of  the  Eim  Kocks,"  ex 
plained  the  Missionary.  "Look — behind  the 
cabin — you  can  see  where  the  cut  runs  through 
the  timber,  a  notch  right  in  the  saddle  of  the  sky 
line." 

"How  many  of  those  fifteen-thousand  are 
yours,  Mr.  Missionary?" 

The  Senator  was  gazing  down  in  the  Valley. 
Just  for  a  second,  Eleanor  thought  the  genial 
look  hardened  and  centred. 

"About  two-thousand,  Senator!  I've  just 
brought  a  thousand  angoras  in  to  see  if  we  can't 
teach  weaving  to  the  Indians.  It  would  mean 
a  good  deal  if  we  could  teach  them  to  be  self- 
supporting — >" 


THE  CHALLENGE  31 

"It  would  mean  the  loss  of  a  lot  of  possible 
patronage  to  this  Valley, "  said  the. Senator  ab 
sently.  "Are  you  still  determined  not  to  accept 
Government  aid!" 

"Absolutely  sir:  my  work  is  to  Christianize 
these  Indians,  not  just  leave  them  educated  sav 
ages." 

"Hm,"  from  the  Senator.  "What  do  you  sup 
pose  they  think  we  are!" 

"I  don't  see  very  well  how  I  can  train  them 
to  be  honest  men  if,  out  of  every  dollar  assigned 
to  aid  the  Indian  school,  sixty  cents  goes  to  Gov 
ernment  contracts  and  party  heelers!" 

"Hm!"  Moyese  was  stroking  his  bare  chin 
with  a  crookt  forefinger.  "I  suppose  if  I  were 
the  story-book  villain,  I'd  say  'yes,  you  must 
teach  'em  to  be  honest';  but  I  don't.  Fact  is, 
Mr.  Missionary,  if  you  go  into  the  ethics  of 
things,  you're  stumped  the  first  bat:  who  gave 
us  their  land,  in  the  first  place?  This  whole 
business  isn't  a  golden  rule  job:  it's  an  iron 
proposition;  and  if  I  were  an  under-dog  beaten 
in  the  game  by  the  law  that  rules  all  life,  I'd 
take  half  a  bone  rather  than  no  meat.  I  make 
a  point  of  never  quarreling  with  the  conditions 
that  existed  when  I  came  into  the  world.  I  ac 
cept  'em  and  make  the  best  of  'em;  and  I  advise 
you  to  do  the  same." 

"You  can't  take  the  contracts  of  a  bargain- 
counter  to  regulate  the  things  of  the  spirit,  Mr. 
Senator." 


32      FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

' 'Oh,  as  for  things  of  the  spirit,"  deprecated 
the  Senator,  smiling  the  big  soft  smile  that  lost 
itself  down  in  his  vest;  and  he  spread  his  broad 
palms  in  suave  protest,  "don't  please  quote  spirit 
to  me !  I  have  all  I  can  do  managing  things  right 
here  on  earth.  To  put  it  briefly,  far  as  this  sheep 
business  is  concerned,  if  you  can't  get  the  sheep 
across  the  saddle  between  the  Holy  Cross  and 
the  Eim  Bocks,  you  want  to  bring  'em  along  the 
trail  through  my  ranch?" 

"That's  it,"  assented  Wayland.  "I've  issued 
grazing  permits  for  the  Upper  Eange:  and  it 
only  remains  to  get  your  permission  to  drive 
them  across  the  land  that  is  not  Forest  Eange." 

The  Senator  crossed  his  legs  and  hung  his  hat 
on  one  knee. 

"As  I  make  it  out,  here's  our  situation!  I 
ask  MacDonald  here,  who  is  the  richest  sheep 
man  west  of  the  Mississippi,  what's  he  willing 
to  do  for  the  party.  Far  as  I  can  see  without 
a  telescope  or  microscope,  he  doesn't  raise  a 
finger — won't  even  take  out  papers  so  he  can 
vote!  I  ask  Parson  Williams  here  what  he  is 
willing  to  do  for  the  party;  and  he  objects  to 
his  copper-gentry  taking  a  free-for-all  forty 
cents  on  the  dollar.  Then,  you  both  come  ask 
ing  me  to  pass  fifteen-thousand  sheep  across  my 
ranch  to  the  Eim  Eocks,  though  they  ruin  the 
pasture  and  there  isn't  room  enough  for  all  the 
cattle,  let  alone  sheep.  I  hate  'em!  I'm  free  to 
say  I  hate  'em !  Every  cattleman  hates  the  sheep 


THE  CHALLENGE  33 

business.  We  haven't  Eange  enough  for  our 
cattle,  let  alone  sheep  and  this  fool  business  of 
fencing  off  free  pasturage  in  Forest  Eeserves. 
And  your  sheep  herders  never  make  settlers. 
You  know  how  it  is.  We'd  run  your  sheep  to 
Hades  if  we  could!  We  aren't  all  in  the  mis 
sionary  business  like  Williams.  We  are  in  for 
what  we  can  get;  and  this  nation  is  the  biggest 
nation  on  earth  because  all  men  are  free  to  go 
in  for  all  they  can  get.  The  sheep  destroy  the 
Eange:  and  I'm  cattle!  You  neither  of  you 
raise  a  hand  to  help  the  party;  and  I'm  a  plain 
party  man;  yes,  I  guess,  Miss  Eleanor — I'm  a 
spoilsman,  all  right;  and  you  come  asking  favors 
of  me.  It  isn't  reasonable;  but  I'll  tell  you 
what  I'll  do.  I'll  show  you  that  I'm  ready  to 
meet  you  in  a  fair  half-way!  MacDonald,  you 
and  Williams  and  the  Kid,  there,  go  along  and 
see  if  that  saddle  can  be  crossed,  here  to  the 
Eim  Eocks.  If  it  can't,  you  can  come  down 
through  the  Valley  and  pass  your  sheep  up 
through  my  ranch.  I  guess  it's  light  enough  yet 
for  you  to  see.  The  gully  is  not  five  minutes 
away.  Bat,  you  go  off  and  entertain  Miss 
Eleanor.  I  want  to  talk  to  Wayland  here." 

Wayland  was  in  no  mood  for  straddling,  for 
palaver,  for  " carrying  water  on  both  shoulders." 
He  was  weary  to  death  of  talk  and  compromise 
and  temporize  and  discretionize  and  all  the  other 
"izes"  by  which  the  politicians  were  hedging 


34     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

» 

right  and  wrong  and  somehow  euchring  the 
many  in  the  interests  of  the  few  and  transforming 
democracy  into  plutocracy.  Besides,  memory  that 
merged  to  conscious  realization  was  playing  in 
lambent  flames  through  his  whole  being  round  the 
form  of  the  figure  against  the  skyline  of  the 
Eidge. 

The  light  of  the  cow-boy  camp  blinked  through 
the  lilac  mist  of  the  Valley.  A  veil  impalpable 
as  dreams  hovered  over  the  Eiver.  The  boom 
and  roll  of  a  snow  cornice  falling  somewhere  in 
the  Gorge  behind  the  Holy  Cross  came  in  dull 
rolling  muffled  thunder  through  the  spruce 
forests.  Had  her  eyes  flashed  it  in  that  recog 
nition  of  love;  or  had  she  said  it;  or  had  the 
thought  been  born  of  the  peace  that  had  come? 
It  kept  coming  back  and  back  to  Wayland  as  the 
boom  of  falling  snow  faded,  as  if  one  man  or 
generation  of  men,  could  stay  the  workings  of  the 
laws  of  eternal  righteousness  by  refusing  to  heed, 
any  more  than  a  man  could  stop  an  avalanche  ~by 
refusing  to  heed  the  law  of  the  snow  flake! 

He  heard  the  wordless  chant  that  the  suff  of 
the  evening  wind  sang;  that  the  storm  wind  of 
the  mountains  shouted  in  spring  as  from  a 
million  trumpets;  that  the  dream  winds  of  the 
ghost  mornings  forerunner  of  fresh  life  for  the 
sons  of  men  whispered,  singing,  chanting,  trump 
eting  the  message  that  snowflake  and  avalanche 
told:  yet  beside  him  on  the  slab  seat  sat  a  man 


THE  CHALLENGE  35 

who  heard  none  of  those  voices,  and  knew  no 
law  but  the  law  of  his  own  desire  to  get. 

The  Eanger  drew  a  deep  breath  of  the  per 
vading  fragrance,  a  tang  of  resin  and  balsam, 
a  barky  smell  of  clean  earth-mould  and  moss,  an 
odor  as  of  some  illusive  frankincense  proffered 
from  the  vesper  chalices  and  censer  cups  of  the 
flower  world. 

" Great  thing  to  be  alive  night  like  this," 
opened  the  Senator.  Then  he  pulled  down  his 
waist  coat  and  pulled  up  his  limp  spine  and 
wheeled  on  the  slab  seat  facing  the  Eanger. 
Very  quietly,  in  a  soft  even  voice  he  was  reason 
ing — 

"We  have  been  fighting  each  other  for  four 
years  now!" 

"We  certainly  have,  Mr.  Senator." 

"You're  a  good  fighter,  Wayland!  I  like  the 
way  you  fight!  You  fight  square;  and  you  fight 
hard;  and  you  never  let  up." 

No  answer  from  the  Forest  Eanger. 

"I  wouldn't  really  have  enough  respect  for  you 
to  say  what  I  am  going  to  say,  if  you  hadn't 
fought  exactly  as  you  have  fought — " 

What  Wayland  was  saying  to  himself  was  what 
Moyese  would  not  have  understood:  it  was  a 
foolish  quotation  about  the  Greeks  when  they 
come  bearing  gifts. 

"But  my  dear  fellow,  we  differ  on  funda 
mentals.  You  are  for  Federal  authority.  I  am 
for  the  Federal  authority  everlastingly  minding 


36     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

its  own  business  most  severely,  and  the  States 
managing  their  own  business!  I  am  for  States 
Eights.  The  Federal  Government  is  an  expen 
sive  luxury,  Wayland.  It  wastes  two  dollars  for 
every  dollar  it  gives  back  to  the  country.  There's 
an  army  of  petty  grafters  and  party  heelers  to 
be  paid  off  at  every  turn!  All  the  States  want 
is  to  be  let  alone. 

"For  three  years,  Wayland,  you  have  been 
fighting  over  those  two-thousand  acres  of  coal 
land  where  the  Smelter  stands.  You  say  it  was 
taken  illegally.  I  know  that;  but  they  didn't 
take  it!  It  was  jugged  through  by  an  English 
promoter — " 

"Just  as  foreign  immigrants  are  jugging 
through  timber  steals  to-day,"  thought  Wayland; 
but  he  answered;  "I  acknowledge  all  that,  Sen 
ator;  but  when  goods  are  stolen,  the  owner  has 
the  right  to  take  them  back  where  found;  and 
that  land  was  stolen  from  the  U.  S.  Eeserves — 
ninety-million  dollars  worth  of  it." 

"I  know!  I  know!  But  what  have  you 
gained?  That  is  what  I  ask!  Federal  Govern 
ment  has  blocked  every  move  you  have  made  to 
take  action  for  these  lands,  hasn't  it?  Very 
soon,  the  Statute  of  Limitations  will  block  you 
altogether." 

The  Senator  shifted  a  knee.     Wayland  waited. 

"You  have  gained  nothing — less  than  nothing: 
you  have  laid  up  a  lot  of  ill  will  for  yourself  that 
will  block  your  promotion.  Been  four  years  here, 


THE  CHALLENGE  37 

haven't  you,  at  seventy-five  dollars  a  month?  I 
pay  my  cow  men  more;  and  they  haven't  spent 
five  years  at  Yale.  Now  take  the  timber  cases. 
You  hold  the  Smelter  shouldn't  take  free  timber 
from  the  Forests?" 

"No  more  than  the  poorest  thief  who  steals  a 
stick  of  wood  from  a  yard — " 

"Pah!  Poor  man!  Dismiss  that  piffle  from 
your  brain !  What  does  the  poor  man  do  for  the 
Valley?  Why  does  any  man  stay  poor  in  this 
land?  Because  he  is  no  good!  We've  brought 
in  thousands  of  workmen.  We've  built  up  a  city. 
We  have  developed  this  State." 

"All  for  your  own  profit — " 

"Exactly!  What  else  does  the  poor  man  work 
for?  But  I'm  not  going  to  argue  that  kinder 
garten  twaddle  of  the  college  highbrows,  Way- 
land.  I'm  out  for  all  I  can  make;  so  is  the 
Smelter;  so  are  you;  but  the  point  is  you've 
fought  this  timber  thing;  you  have  filed  and  filed 
and  filed  your  recommendations  for  suit  to  be 
instituted;  so  have  the  Land  Office  men;  have 
they  done  any  good,  Wayland?  Has  your 
boasted  Federal  Government,  so  superior  to  the 
State,  taken  any  action?" 

"No,"  answered  Wayland,  "somebody  has 
monkeyed  with  the  wheels  of  justice." 

"Then,  why  do  you  distress  yourself?  You 
have  played  a  losing  game  for  four  years,  cut 
your  fingers  on  those  same  wheels  of  justice. 
Quit  it,  Wayland!  What  good  does  it  do? 


38      FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Come  over  to  the  right  side  and  build  up  big 
industries,  big  development!  I've  watched  you 
fighting  for  four  years,  Wayland!  You  are  the 
squarest,  pluckiest  fighter  I've  ever  known.  But 
you  can't  do  a  thing!  You  can't  get  anywhere! 
You're  wasting  the  best  years  of  your  life 
mouthing  up  here  in  the  Mountains  at  the  moon; 
and  who  of  all  the  public  you  are  fighting  for, 
my  boy,  who  of  all  the  public  gives  one  damn  for 
right  or  wrong?  If  we  turn  you  down,  who  is 
going  to  raise  a  finger  for  you?  Answer  that 
my  boy !  They  are  paying  you  poorer  wages  now 
than  we  pay  any  ignorant  foreigner  down  in  the 
Smelter;  that's  a  way  the  dear  people  have  of 
caring  for  their  ownest!  Chuck  it,  Wayland! 
Chuck  it!  Waken  up,  man;  look  out  for  num 
ber  one ;  and,  in  the  words  of  the  illustrious  Van- 
derbilticus,  let  the  public  be  d — ee— d!  Come 
down  to  my  ranch  where  you'll  have  a  chance  to 
carry  out  your  fine  ideas  of  Eange  and  Forest! 
Hell,  what  are  you  gaining  here,  man?  A  sort  o' 
moral  hysterics — that's  all!  It's  all  very  well 
for  those  Down  Easterners,  who  have  lots  of 
money  and  are  keen  on  the  lime  light,  to  go 
spouting  all  over  the  country  about  running  the 
Government  the  way  you'd  run  a  Sunday  School." 
The  Senator  had  become  so  tense  that  he  had 
raised  his  voice.  "  Chuck  those  damfool  theo 
ries,  Wayland!  Chuck  them,  I  tell  you!  Get 
down  to  business,  man!  What  are  you  howling 
about  timber  for  posterity  for?  If  you  don't 


THE  CHALLENGE  39 

look  alive,  you'll  go  lean  frying  fat  for  posterity! 
Oh,  rot,  the  thing  makes  me  so  tired  I  can't  talk 
about  it!  Come  down  to  my  ranch.  I  want  a 
thorough  man !  I  want  a  man  who  can  fight  like 
the  devil  if  he  has  to  and  handle  that  gang  in 
the  cow  camp  with  branding  irons!  I  want  'em 
run  out,  do  you  hear?  They're  blackguards!  I 
want  a  man  that's  a  man;  and,  for  pay,  you  can 
name  your  own  price.  I'll  want  a  partner  as 
I  grow  older.  And  don't  you  do  any  fool  rash 
thing  that  I'll  have  to  fight  and  down  you  for! 
I  like  you,  Wayland — " 

Then  three  things  happened  instantaneously. 
"Wayland  glanced  up.  Eleanor  MacDonald  was 
looking  straight  into  his  eyes.  And  the  sheep 
rancher's  choppy  voice  was  saying  to  the  Mis 
sionary,  "Some  men  go  up  in  the  mountains  to 
fish  for  trout;  but  others  stay  right  down  in  the 
Valley  and  grow  rich  catching  suckers." 

"We  can't  cross  that  gully,"  shouted  the  boy. 
"We  can't  cross  it  nohow!  We  got  to  cross  the 
ranch  trail  to  go  up  to  them  Eim  Bocks." 

"Why,  all  right,  Fordie,"  the  Senator  rose, 
kicking  the  folds  from  the  knees  of  his  trousers, 
"if  you  boss  the  job,  Fordie,  I'll  let  you  cross 
the  ranch!  You'll  take  a  few  of  the  herders  up 
with  you?  And  you'll  not  let  the  sheep  spread 
over  the  fields?  Better  do  it  towards  evening 
when  it's  cool  for  the  climb!  All  right,  we'll 
call  that  a  bargain!  Fordie 's  on  the  job  to  pass 
the  sheep  up  the  trail;  and  just  to  show  you  I'm 


40     FBEEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

fair,  here  is  Miss  Eleanor  for  my  witness,  you 
can  drive  the  whole  bunch  over  my  ranch !  Good 
night,  all!  Everybody  coming  now?  Come  on! 
[We'll  lead  the  way,  Miss  Eleanor.  It's  getting 
dark.  I'll  pad  the  fall  if  anybody  behind  trips. 
Good  night,  Wayland;  think  that  offer  of  mine 
over?  Not  coming,  Brydges?  All  right,  give 
Wayland  a  piece  of  your  mind,  as  a  newspaper 
man,  about  this  business!  Night!  Good  night, 
Calamity I" 


CHAPTER  IV 

STACKING   THE    CARDS 

Bat  straddled  the  slab  and  lighted  his  pipe. 

"Old  man  been  giving  you  some  good  advice  I" 

"I  don't  know  whether  you'd  call  it  good  or 
not.  Let's  heap  the  logs  on,  Brydges,  and  make 
the  shadows  dance." 

Brydges  did  some  hard  thinking  and  let  the 
Eanger  do  the  heaping. 

"Sort  of  razzle-dazzler,  MacDonald's  daugh 
ter;  she's  a  winner;  but  you  can't  get  at  her! 
Sort  of  feel  when  she's  talking  to  you  as  if  her 
other  self  was  'way  down  East.  Wonder  what 
the  old  curmudgeon  brought  her  back  here  for? 
If  she'd  let  down  her  high  airs  a  peg,  she'd  have 
every  fellow  in  the  Valley  on  a  string.  She  could 
have  Moyese's  scalp  now  if  she  wanted  it — all 
that's  left  of  it?" 

"You  can  bunk  inside!  I'll  take  the  ham 
mock."  Wayland  emerged  from  the  cabin  trail 
ing  a  gray  blanket  and  a  lynx  skin  robe.  Bat 
continued  to  emit  smoke  in  puffs  and  curls  and 
wreaths  at  the  top  of  the  trees. 

"How  many  acres  do  you  patrol,  Dickie?" 

"About  a  hundred-thousand." 

41 


42   FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Is  that  all?  How  many  horses  does  the  Gov- 
ment  allow?" 

6 '  None !    Buy  our  own ! ' ' 

" Great  Guns!  And  you're  loyal  to  that  kind 
of  Service?  It's  bally  loyal  I'd  be!  Why, 
Moyese  allows  me  the  use  of  any  bronch  on  his 
ranch;  and,  when  there's  a  quick  turn  to  be  made, 
it's  a  motor  car.  Why  don't  you  let  me  send  you 
up  a  couple  of  Moyese 's  nags?  You  could  past 
ure  'em  here  and  get  their  use  for  nothing.  I 
could  do  that  right  off  my  own  responsibility. 
Need  be  no  connection  with  the  old  man. ' ' 

"Bat,"  said  the  Banger,  "did  you  stay  up  here 
to  say  that  to  me?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  did  or  not;  but,  now 
that  I  am  here,  I  say  it  anyway;  and  I  say  a 
whole  lot  more — don't  be  a  bally  fool  and  buck 
into  a  buzz-saw!  Why  don't  you  take  the  Sen 
ator's  offer?  Holy  Smoke!  What  are  you 
gaining  stuck  up  here  in  a  hole  of  a  shack  that's 
snowed  ten  feet  deep  all  winter?  What's  the 
use  of  fighting  the  Smelter  thieves,  and  the 
Timber  thieves,  and  the  Dummy  homesteaders, 
and  all  that?  You  can't  buck  the  combination, 
Dick!  It  isn't  only  Moyese!  He's  a  mere  tool 
himself  in  this  game.  It's  the  Eing  you're  up 
against,  and  you  can  chase  yourself  all  your  life 
round  that  Eing,  and  never  get  anywhere.  The 
big  dubs  at  Washington,  the  politicians,  they  are 
only  spokes  themselves  in  that  wheel.  If  you 
buck  into  that  wheel,  you  get  yourself  tangled 


STACKING  THE  CARDS  43 

into  a  pulp;  and  if  any  of  those  dubs  down  in 
Washington  thinks  he  won't  fit  into  the  King, 
why  he'll  find  himself  broken  and  jerked  out  so 
quick  he  won't  know  what  has  happened  till  he 
sees  the  Wheel  going  round  again  with  a  new 
spoke  in  his  place." 

"Bat,  did  you  stay  up  here  to  say  that  to  me?" 
"No,  I  did  not."  With  a  twig  Bat  pushed 
down  the  tobacco  in  his  pipe.  "I  stayed  up  here, 
if  you  want  to  know,  because  we  were  on  our  way 
to  the  cow  camp  when  the  parson  and  his  kid 
joined  us.  I  guess  every  man  has  his  limit. 
That  cow-camp  gang  is  mine.  I  want  to  live  a 
little  longer;  and  I  don't  want  to  know  things 
that  might  make  it  useful  for  me  to  die.  When 
Moyese  wants  to  deal  with  that  gang,  he  can  go 
it  alone." 

"Brydges,"  said  Wayland,  "you  have  given 
me  some  frank  advice.  I'm  going  to  reciprocate. 
You  know  what  is  going  on  out  here.  You  know 
why  that  Arizona  gang  comes  up  here.  You 
know  why  we  can't  touch  them — they  are  off  the 
Eange  of  the  Forest.  You  know  about  the  stolen 
coal  for  the  Smelter  Eing,  thousands  of  acres  of 
it;  and  the  stolen  timber  limits  for  the  Lumber 
Eing,  millions  of  acres  of  them.  If  the  public 
knew,  Bat,  we'd  win  our  fight.  It  would  be  a 
walk  over.  Every  man  jack  of  them  would  lie 
down,  and  stay  put.  Why  don't  you  tell  in  your 
paper?  Why  don't  you  tell  the  truth  when  you 
send  the  dispatches  East?  If  you  did,  Bat,  we 


44  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

could  clean  out  the  gang  in  a  month.  Why  don't 
you  play  the  game  a  man  should  play?  Every 
newspaper  man  likes  a  clean  sporty  fight;  and 
no  knifing  in  the  back.  Why  don't  you  put  up 
that  fight  for  us,  now,  Brydges,  and  stop  giving 
us  side  jabs?" 

Brydges'  pipe  fell  from  his  teeth. 

"Wayland — what  in  hell — do  you  think — I'm 
working  for?" 

There  was  a  big  silence. 

The  look  of  masterdom  came  back  to  Wayland's 
face;  but  he  paused,  looking  straight  ahead  in 
space.  Perhaps  he  was  looking  for  the  hard  grip 
of  the  next  grapple.  He  had  a  curious  trick  at 
such  times  of  clinching  his  teeth  very  tight  be 
hind  open  lips;  and  the  pupil  of  his  eye  became 
a  blank. 

"You  are  at  least  sincere,  Brydges,"  he  said. 

Bat  gathered  up  his  shattered  pipe. 

"I'm  not  a  past-master,  yet,"  he  said.  "I 
haven't  reached  the  point  where  I  can  believe  my 
own  lies;  so  I  don't  tell  'em  and  get  caught.  I've 
dug  down  in  the  mortuaries  of  other  men  too 
often — long  as  a  man  doesn't  believe  his  own  lies, 
he's  on  guard  and  doesn't  get  caught.  It's  when 
he  comes  ping  against  a  buzz-saw  and  finds  it's  a 
fact  that  he  has  to  pay  or  back  down  or  lose  out. 
You  can't  budge  a  fact,  damn  it!  Thing  always 
shows  the  same!" 

Bat  had  found  the  pieces  of  his  pipe.    Fitting 


STACKING  THE  CARDS  45 

the  meerschaum  to  the  wood,  he  had  gained  con 
fidence  and  was  going  ahead  full  steam. 

"Saw  *  Macbeth'  in  Smelter  City  Theatre  last 
night.  'Member  the  place  where  he  says  'Thou 
canst  not  say  I  did  it ? '  Well,  that's  the  beginning 
of  the  end  for  that  old  boy;  fooled  himself  that 
time.  If  he'd  remembered  that,  though  he  didn't 
do  it  with  his  own  hand,  he  did  do  it  all  the  same, 
he  wouldn't  have  believed  his  own  lie  and  got 
all  tangled  up.  One  of  the  first  things  Moyese 
told  me  when  I  went  on  his  paper  was  never  to 
monkey  with  the  dee-fool  who  wastes  time  justify 
ing  himself:  do  it  and  go  ahead!  Fact  is,  Dick, 
I  look  on  a  newspaper  man  same  as  I  do  a  law 
yer  :  he  has  his  price ;  and  he  finds  his  market  for 
his  wares;  and  it's  none  of  his  business  what  his 
private  convictions  are  of  the  right  or  wrong. 
He's  paid  to  defend  or  attack  like  a  lawyer;  and 
he  goes  ahead — " 

"And  doesn't  pretend  he's  fooling  the  public 
by  giving  news,  eh,  Bat?  Brydges,  if  you  argue 
that  fashion,  you  must  excuse  me  if  I  grin." 

"Who's  the  old  party  talking  to  your  road  gang 
down  by  the  white  tent?"  asked  Brydges,  point 
ing  where  the  Eange  sloped  down  to  the  Home 
stead  Settlement  and  a  long  canvass  bunk  house 
marked  the  domicile  of  the  road  hands  for  the 
Forests. 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't  get  away  from  the  argu 
ment  so  easily,  Bat!  You  make  the  Senator's 
job  and  your  job  and  public  service  all  round 


46  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

a  bunco  game,  a  bunco  game  with  marked  cards ; 
while  we  Service  and  Land  fellows  act  the  decent 
sign  for  a  blind  pig — " 

' 'Hullo,  he's  coming  up,"  interrupted  Brydges. 
"  Seems  your  night  for  deputations,  Wayland! 
Looks  like  a  parson!  By  George,  I  didn't  know 
Senator  had  his  drag  net  out  for  parsons  as 
dummy  entrymen!  Nothing  like  imparting  qual 
ity  !  By  George,  hanged  if  I  know — he  looks  like 
a  peddler — has  a  pack  horse — " 

"Peddler  o'  th'  Gospel,  Son!  Good  ee— ven- 
ing  to  you,  Gentlemen." 

The  newcomer  sang  out  greeting  in  a  high 
thin  falsetto  that  belied  the  ruddy  youth  of  shaven 
cheeks  and  accorded  more  with  his  masses  of 
white  hair. 

"Is  this  the  Eanger  place  perched  on  top  o'  th' 
warld?  Y'r  workmen  in  the  white  tent  told  me 
A'd  find  a  short  trail  here-by  t'  th'  next  Valley. 
'Tis  y'r  Missionary  Williams  A'm  seekin';  A 
thought  if  A'd  push  on,  push  on,  an'  cat-er-corner 
y'r  mountain  here,  A'd  strike  y'r  Eiver  by  moon 
light  !  So  A  have !  So  A  have !  But  it 's  Satan 's 
own  waste  o'  windfall  'mong  these  big  trees! 
Such  a  leg-breakin'  trail  A  have  na'  beaten  since 
A  peddled  Texas  tickler  done  up  in  Gospel  hymn 
books  filled  wi'  whiskey — " 

"Well — I'll — be — hanged,"  slowly  ejaculated 
Mr.  Bat  Brydges.  "Come  far?"  he  asked  aloud, 
fumbling  his  brain  for  a  clue. 

The  old  man,  emerging  from  the  timbers,  took 


STACKING  THE  CARDS  47 

off  his  hat  and  swabbed  the  sweat  from  his  brow. 
Then  he  righted  the  saddle  on  his  broncho. 

"Eh,  woman,  do  A  scare  y'!"  This  to  Calam 
ity,  just  turning  down  the  Eidge  trail  with  a  dun 
gray  blanket  filled  with  odds  and  ends  on  her 
shoulders,  when  the  padded  thud  of  the  pack  horse 
coming  through  the  heavy  timber  was  followed  by 
the  stalwart  form  of  the  newcomer.  Face  and 
form  were  frontiersman;  vesture,  clerical;  but 
Old  Calamity  trotted  back  to  the  Eange  cabin. 

"Come  far,  did  y'  ask!  More  or  less,  more  or 
less.  A've  come  farther  on  unholier  missions. 
We'd  call  it  a  nice  bit  snow-shoe  run  in 
the  old  days.  Two  months  since  A  left  Sas 
katchewan!  We've  taken  our  time,  Bessie  an' 
me — "  caressing  the  mare  with  resounding  slaps. 
"We're  not  so  young  as  we  were,  Bessie  an'  me, 
when  we  sarved  Satan  hot-foot  back  an'  forth 
these  same  trails  till  by  the  Grace  o '  God  we  broke 
halter  from  Hell  for  holier  trail — " 

"Better  loosen  up  and  berth  here  for  to-night," 
suggested  the  Eanger.  ' '  The  Eidge  trail  is  steep 
going,  down  grade,  after  dark  for  a  stranger — " 

"Stranger?"  The  old  man  trumpeted  a  laugh 
that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  megaphone. 
"Stranger,  my  kiddie  boy?  A've  known  these 
Eocky  Mountain  States  when,  if  ye  owned  these 
pairts  an'  had  a  homestead  in  Hell,  y'd  rent  y'r 
residence  here  and  take  up  quiet  life  the  other 
place!  A  knew  these  trails  before  y'  were  born, 
from  Mexico  to  MacKenzie  Eiver,  wherever  men 


48     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

had  a  thirst.  AVe  travelled  these  trails  wi'  cook 
stoves  packed  full  o'  Scotch  dew,  an'  the  Mounted 
Police  hangin'  t'  m'  tail  till  A  scuttled  the  Bound 
ary.  Good  days — rip  roaring  days  for  the  mak- 
in'  of  strong  men!  We  were  none  o9  y'r  cold 
blooded  reptile  calculatin'  kind!  May  we  fight 
valiant  for  God  now  as  we  wrestled  for  the  Devil 
then!  Oh,  to  be  young  again  an'  not  spill  life 
in  wassail !  to  give  the  blows  for  right  instead  of 
wrong!  Man,  what  a  view  y'  have  here — what  a 
view !  Minds  me  of  the  days  A  was  bridge  build 
ing  in  the  Rockies — " 

"Then  youVe  been  in  these  mountains  before?" 
asked  Brydges ;  but  the  old  frontiersman  refused 
to  take  the  bait  and  rambled  on  in  his  reverie. 

"What  a  view!  Th'  vera  kingdom  of  earth 
at  y'r  feet!  The  river  wimplin' — wimplin' 
— wimplin'  wi'  a  silver  laugh  over  the  stones,  an' 
the  light  violet  as  a  Scotch  lass's  eye!  An'  the 
green  fields  of  alfalfa — Have  y'  ever  noticed  how 
th'  light  above  the  alfalfa  turns  purple?  An'  y'r 
Rim  Rocks  roasted  fire  red  by  the  heat.  'Tis  the 
same  view  A've  gazed  on  many  a  time  when  A  was 
young. ' '  He  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  the  longing  that 
only  the  passing  frontiersman  knows.  "  'Tis  like 
if  the  Devil  came  tempting  to-day,  't  would  be 
such  a  place  as  this!  Many's  the  time  He  came 
to  us  in  them  old  days,  lawless  days!  'Tis  dif 
ferent  to-day.  He'd  not  bait  men  savage  naked 
now.  The  kingdoms  of  the  earth,  he'd  offer — 
wealth  an'  success — wealth  an'  success — the  fet- 


STACKING  THE  CAEDS  49 

ish  o '  sons  o '  men  to-day.  'Twould  not  be  simple 
cards  for  drink  y'd  play!  Bigger  stakes — bigger 
stakes,  boys!  He'd  bait  men's  souls  wi'  bigger 
stakes !  If  I  were  young  I'd  take  his  bet  an'  play 
for  the  biggest  stakes  outside  o'  Hell — " 

"Hey?  What  is  that?"  queried  Brydges;  and 
he  winked  at  Wayland.  "We'd  been  talking  of  a 
bunco  game  when  you  came  up." 

"Y'  had,  had  you!"  The  old  frontiersman 
measured  Brydges  through  and  through.  "Well, 
judging  from  y'r  brass  an'  the  up-and-coming 
kind  of  it,  A'm  thinking  y'r  stakes  would  be  pea 
nuts  under  little  shells!  'Tis  bigger  stakes  I'd 
play  for  if  I  had  m'  life  to  live  over — " 

"What?"  asked  Wayland  curiously. 

Mr.  Bat  Brydges  was  revising  his  inventory  of 
the  old  '  '  duffer. ' '  Wayland  was  laughing  openly. 
The  old  man  had  become  oblivious  of  both,  with  a 
triangling  of  sharply  intersected  lines  between  his 
brows  and  tense  compression  of  the  lips — 

"The — fate — o' — this — land,"  he  ripped  out  in 
hammer  raps, ' l  the  fate  of  this  land,  boys,  with  all 
time  lookin'  on  since  ever  Time  began!  Y're  the 
fiery  furnace  of  all  the  world's  hopes  and  fears, 
of  all  earth's  people,  of  all  poets'  dreams;  an' 
God  only  knows  what  a  mess  o'  slag  y're  turning 
out!  Y'r  muck  rakers  are  belching  y'r  failures 
to  the  four  corners  of  earth !  Justice  perverted ! 
Courts  in  fee  to  the  highest  bidder !  More  mur 
ders — murders  in  this  fresh  new  clean  land  than 
all  the  stew  pots  o'  filth  the  old  nations  have 


50     FREEBOOTERS  OP  THE  WILDERNESS 

brewed  in  a  thousand  years ;  and  murders  unpun 
ished!  Y'r  Government — the  great  world  experi 
ment — is  it  the  wull  o'  the  people,  or  the  wull  of  a 
gilded  clique  o'  tricksters  ?" 

The  old  man  stretched  out  his  hands  above  the 
Valley.  "What  are  ye  doing  with  y'r  freedom, 
the  freedom  that  the  children  o'  light  prayed  for 
and  fought  for  and  died  for!  When  there's  one 
law  for  the  rich  and  another  for  the  poor,  when 
ye  have  to  bribe  y'r  own  self -elected  rulers  to  do 
y'r  wull,  where  is  y'r  freedom  different  from  the 
freedom  in  France  before  the  Bevolution?  Is  it 
not  written  'my  house  shall  be  for  all  nations ;  but 
ye  have  made  it  a  den  of  thieves!'  Ye  have  what 
all  tKe  nations  of  the  earth  have  bled  for,  what 
prophets  have  prayed  for,  and  patriots  died  for; 
and  all  the  world  is  looking  on  asking,  sneering, 
scoffing,  saying  ye  pervert  the  Ark  o'  the  Cov 
enant  of  God,  saying  lawlessness  stalks  under  y'r 
banners,  saying  y'  wrest  the  judgment  to  the 
highest  bidder,  aye  to  the  supreme  fountain  head 
o'  y'r  courts!  The  fate  o'  this  land,  boys! 
Them's  the  stakes  I'd  play  for,  if  I  had  lusty  blows 
to  spare.  I'd  up — I'd  up— I'd  strip  me  naked  of 
every  back-thought  and  expediency  and  self-in 
terest  and  hold-back!  I'd  hurl  the  lie — in  the 
teeth — of  a  scoffing  world — I'd  show  all  nations 
o'  time  that  the  people,  the  plain  common  good 
people,  can  keep  the  law  sound  as  the  Ark  o'  the 
Covenant  of  God;  and — and — I'd  hurl  y'r  traitor 
leaders — y'r  Judas  Iscariots  huckstering  the 


STACKING  THE  CARDS  51 

land's  good  for  paltry  silver — I'd  hurl  y'r  graft 
ers  an'  y'r  heelers  an'  y'r  bosses  an'  y'r  strumpet 
justices,  who  sell  a  verdict  like  a  harlot,  I'd  hurl 
them  to  the  bottom  of  Hell!  An'  may  Hell  be 
both  deep  and  hot — old  fashioned  extra  for  the 
pack  of  them!" 

He  shook  his  trembling  fist  at  the  vacuous  air. 
" Fight — right — might!  I'd  paint  the  words  in 
letters  o'  blood  till  they  awakened  this  land  like 
the  fiery  cross  of  old!  I'd  fight— fight— fight  till 
they  had  to  kill  every  man  o'  my  kind  before  I'd 
down!  Before  I'd  see  y'r  law  outraged,  y'r 
courts  perverted,  y'r  justice  bartered  and  hawked 
and  peddled  from  huckster  to  trickster,  from 
heeler  to  headman,  from  blackmailer  to  high  judge 
> — but  A  didna  mean  to  break  loose.  Y'r  fair 
scene  stirred  m'  blood;  and  A'm  an  old  man;  and 
[A.  love  the  land.  A  was  born  West.  A  'm  none  of 
y'r  immigration  boomsters  who  goes  in  a  Pullman 
car,  then  tells  the  world  all  about — Now,  which 
way  to  y'r  Missionary  Williams'?" 

Bat  flushed;  but  he  did  not  laugh.  Oddly 
enough,  he  forgot  the  feature-story.  Wayland 
rose  and  came  forward  and  involuntarily  held 
out  his  hand. 

"I  wish  you'd  stay  for  the  night,"  he  said. 
" A  good  many  of  us  feel  the  way  you  do ;  but  like 
you,  we're  all  up  in  air.  Sawing  the  air  doesn't 
saw  wood.  A  good  many  of  us  are  in  the  fight 
right  now;  but,  unless  we  get  somewhere,  we're 
going  to  feel  as  if  we  were  carving  wind  mills. 


52     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Suppose  you  put  up  here  for  the  night?  Be 
sides,  it's  pretty  late  to  go  down.  Trail  switches 
sharply — " 

The  old  frontiersman  heard  absently. 

"An  old  man's  breedings,"  he  ruminated. 

"I'd  call  'em  D.  T.'s,"  muttered  Brydges. 

"Don't  fear  for  my  bones  on  the  trail."  He 
came  back  from  his  reverie  as  from  a  journey. 
"  A'm  the  old  breed  that  doesn't  break.  'Tis  you 
young  brittle  fellows  all  bred  to  pace  and  speed 
and  style  needs  look  to  y'r  goin's.  Which  way  do 
A  turn  at  the  foot  of  the  Eidge?  One — two — 
three— A  see  four  lights.  Which  is  the  Mission?" 

"If  you  insist  on  leaving,  Sir,  there  is  an  In 
dian  woman  here  going  down  to  the  MacDonald 
ranch — " 

"MacDonald,  did  you  say!" 

1  i  The  next  place  along  the  Eiver  is  the  Mission. 
Here,  Calamity,  show  this  stranger  which  way  to 
go,  will  you?" 

But  Calamity  had  already  bolted  for  the  Eidge 
trail. 

' '  Stranger  ?  She  doesn  't  look  to  me  exactly  like 
a  stranger.  Looks  precious  like  one  of  our  Sas 
katchewan  half-breeds!  Haven't  A  seen  you  be 
fore,  my  good  woman?  A'm  Jack  Matthews,  who 
carried  the  mail  for  the  Company  at  the  Big 
House;  by  an'  by  contractor,  then  by  the  Grace 
o'  God  missionary  to  the  Cree!  Haven't  A  seen 
you,  girl?  Was  it  '85  at  the  Agency  House  when 
Wandering  Spirit — " 


STACKING  THE  CARDS  53 

"Non  sabe,"  snapped  Calamity,  setting  off 
down  the  trail  at  a  run  paced  to  keep  the  reverend 
traveller  behind  till  she  reached  the  last  loop. 
Drawing  her  shawl  over  her  face,  she  paused  with 
her  back  to  the  frontiersman.  To  the  left  blinked 
the  lights  of  the  sheep  ranch  house  and  the  Mis 
sion,  to  the  right  the  cow  boy  camp  and  the  dead 
glare  of  the  white  buildings  belonging  to  the  Sen 
ator. 

' i Viola!  dat  vayl"  The  woman  deliberately 
pointed  to  the  cow-boy  camp;  then  vanished  in 
the  darkness. 

"Mighty  quick  wench!  A  have  seen  you  be 
fore,  my  sly  minx,  and  A '11  see  you  some  more," 
he  said  staring  after  the  fading  form. 

Then  he  headed  his  mare  for  the  cow-boy  camp 
below  the  cliff.  Half  a  dozen  men  lounged  round 
a  smudge  fire.  The  old  man  paused  to  sort  out 
the  scene;  the  box  of  a  gramaphone  laid  out  for 
a  card  table,  a  bottle  of  whiskey  in  the  centre, 
two  empty  bottles  with  candles  stuck  in  the  necks 
for  lights,  a  dull  smudge  fire,  four  rough  fellows 
sprawling  on  the  ground,  one  with  corduroy  vel 
veteen  trousers,  an  old  white  pack  horse  nosing 
windward  of  the  smoke;  one  figure  with  sheep 
skin  chaps  to  his  waist,  thumbs  in  his  belt,  stand 
ing  erect  with  back  to  the  trail ;  and  face  in  light, 
a  shaven  face  with  a  strong  jaw  and  oily  geniality, 
a  corpulent  form  in  a  white  vest,  putting  a  pocket 
book  in  a  breast  pocket. 


54   FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

The  old  frontiersman  took  hold  of  his  mare's 
bridle. 

"  'Tis  hardly  what  you'd  look  for  in  a  Mis 
sionary  outfit,  Bessie. " 

"You'll  leave  for  the  South  at  once?" 

The  question  commanded.  The  old  frontiers 
man  listened. 

"Hoof  express,  Sir,"  promised  the  sheep-skin 
leggings. 

"And  mind  you  I  know  nothing  about  it,  Jim. 
I'm  not  to  be  told.  I  take  care  of  you  without 
you  knowing  about  it.  I  expect  you  to  take  care 
of  us — "  the  white  waist  coat  became  at  once  im 
pressive  and  anxious. 

"That's  all  right,  Colonel.  I  understand! 
"We'll  crowd  'em  to  beat  Hell;  and  they'll  go  it 
blind.  If  it's  coming  dark,  they'll  shut  their  eyes 
and  go  over  blind.  I  defy  Sheriff  Flood,  himself, 
if  he's  standing  on  the  spot  to  make  a  case — " 

"You  need  have  no  fear  of  Sheriff  Flood  ever 
being  on  the  spot.  He'll  be  busy  under  his  bed 
that  night ;  but  look  out  for  these  Federal  puppy- 
boy  Forest  Eanger  fellows!  Finish  up  off  the 
confounded  National  Eange.  Finish  up  before 
they  reach  the  National  Eange." 

"And  the  Mexican  herders?"  asked  the  sheep 
skin  chaps  with  a  flourish  of  his  hand  above  the 
fire  that  showed  the  flash  of  a  diamond  on  the  lit 
tle  finger. 

The  white  vest  spread  deprecating  hands. 

".That's   your  business,   Jim!    Make  a   clean 


STACKING  THE  CAEDS  55 

sweep  of  the  herd ;  but  see  that  no  harm  comes  to 
the  boy." 

The  old  frontiersman  headed  his  broncho  si 
lently  back  on  the  trail. 

"  Night  birds  hatching  snake  eggs.  A'm  really 
between  two  minds  to  go  back  and  crack  their 
addled  heads." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    CHOICE   THAT    COMES   TO   ALL   MEN 

' '  Did  you  notice  anything  1 ' '  demanded  Brydges, 
as  the  old  stranger  went  down  the  Eidge  trail. 
"She  knows  English  as  well  as  you  do;  and  she 
is  a  French  breed.  Why  did  she  put  on  to  be 
Mexican  ?  What  did  she  sneak  for  ?  Whole  thing 
cussed  queer.  What  do  you  make  of  it?  Mat 
thews?  Matthews?  I  recall  that  name.  Fellow 
by  that  name  wrote  our  paper  to  know  if  any  Can 
adian  settlers  had  come  here !  Say,  Wayland,  the 
old  man  pricked  up  his  ears  at  MacDonald's  name 
— spoke  of -Rebellion  Days.'' 

"Oh,  shut  it  off,  Bat!  What  in  the  world  has 
a  travelling  half -cracked  ranting  old  evangelist  to 
do  with  the  MacDonald  family  ?  He  '11  land  on  the 
Mission  for  a  week  or  two  free  like  the  rest  of 
'em!  He'll  likely  preach  Hell-fire  to  Indians, 
who'll  not  know  a  word  of  what  he  says  till  Mr. 
Williams  gives  him  a  call  to  move  on — " 

"All  the  same,"  retorted  Bat,  disappearing  in 
side  the  cabin. 

Wayland  passed  a  bad  night,  the  worst  he  had 
known  on  the  Holy  Cross,  contending  with  what 

56 


THE  CHOICE  57 

comes  to  all  lives,  and  to  many  lives  many  times. 

The  Banger  had  absorbed  the  average  amount 
of  Sunday  school  pabulum  that  floats  round  in  the 
mental  atmosphere  of  all  youth,  that,  if  you  keep 
on  doing  right  and  doing  it  hard,  things  will  turn 
out  all  right  in  the  end.  Well,  he  told  himself 
bluntly,  he  had  been  doing  right  and  doing  it  hard, 
just  as  hundreds  of  the  Land  Office  field  men  and 
Land  Office  attorneys  had  been  doing  right  in 
their  vain  endeavour  to  stop  public  loot; — and 
things  had  turned  out  all  wrong.  What  did  his 
four  years'  fight  stand  for,  anyway?  Marking 
time,  that  was  all.  Nothing  accomplished  except 
the  wasting  of  four  years  of  his  own  life;  and, 
while  that  may  be  small  enough  in  the  sum  total 
of  things,  where  a  thousand  seeds  go  to  waste 
for  one  that  bears  fruit,  it  is  overwhelmingly  big 
to  the  individual  man.  If  he  had  been  the  one 
and  only  failure  of  the  Civil  Service  workers,  he 
could  have  accused  himself  and  taken  the  Sena 
tor's  advice  to  " chuck"  the  fool-theory  of  men  in 
public  service  fighting  for  right ;  but  he  was  only 
one  of  a  multitude  of  men,  paid  public  money  to 
prevent  the  looting  of  public  property;  whose 
work  was  blocked,  non-suited,  pigeon-holed, 
bluffed,  hampered,  or,  worst  of  all,  carried  up  to 
investigating  committees  whose  sole  purpose  was 
to  conceal  and  wear  the  public  out  with  intermin 
able  wrangles  over  technicalities  that  were  irrelev 
ant. 

Better  men  than  he  had  fought  doggedly  only 


58     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

to  be  downed.  There  was  the  Land  Office  man  in 
Oregon  dismissed  for  the  slip  of  a  wrong  entry 
in  his  field  book  because  he  had  quite  unintention 
ally  unearthed  the  frauds  of  a  member  of  the  land- 
loot  ring  who  happened  to  be  a  congressman. 
There  was  the  Federal  attorney  hounded  from  his 
home  city  because  he  prosecuted  bribe-givers  and 
objected  to  being  shot  while  on  duty  in  the  court 
room.  There  was  that  other  Federal  Law  man, 
shot  at  the  shaft  of  a  coal  mine  stolen  from  public 
lands.  There  was  the  Army  Engineer  demoted 
from  his  life  work  because  he  fought  for  a  free 
harbor  for  a  great  city  and  offended  the  rail 
road  fighting  to  keep  that  harbor  closed.  There 
were  the  two  Forest  Service  men  dismissed  for 
giving  facts  to  the  public.  Then,  there  was  the 
Alaska  Case — Wayland  laughed;  and  the  laugh 
was  a  little  bitter.  Surely  the  crowning  farce 
of  all:  that  had  gone  up  easily  to  investigation 
with  a  blare  of  trumpets  and  a  flare  of  news 
headlines.  That  was  the  easiest  of  all. 

It  made  good  politics,  yet — it  was  so  involved 
in  technicalities,  while  it  offered  a  bit  of  by-play 
to  the  gallery,  that  there  had  never  from  the  first, 
even  for  the  fraction  of  an  instant,  been  the  faint 
est  hope  of  anything  but  confusion  emerging  from 
the  investigation ;  but  it  played  into  the  game  with 
out  hurting  anybody.  If  they  had  really  wanted 
to  investigate,  why  didn't  they  take  a  case  in  which 
there  were  no  technicalities  of  law,  the  looted  red- 
lands  of  California,  for  instance;  or  the  half- 


THE  CHOICE  59 

million  of  timber  openly  stolen  each  year  for  a 
certain  smelting  ring;  or  the  two  thousand  acres 
of  coal  where  Smelter  City  itself  was  built;  or 
the  shooting  of  the  Federal  Law  Officer  down  at 
that  other  coal  mine1?  These  cases  involved  no 
"twilight  zone"  of  dispute  as  to  law,  in  which  the 
"system"  and  the  "ring"  could  hide.  Every 
Government  man  knew  the  evidence  was  plain  and 
complete  in  these  cases:  yet  they  were  pigeon 
holed,  let  lapse  for  the  Statute  of  Limitations  to 
bar  action.  Why? 

Wayland  sat  down  on  the  slab  seat,  and  the 
personal  reasons  came  trooping  against  his  reso 
lutions  like  the  scouts  of  an  oncoming  host. 

To  begin  with,  he  could  make  more  money  out 
side  the  Service.  The  Government  men  were  paid 
less  than  foreign  ditch-diggers;  but  then,  which 
of  the  men  remained  in  the  Service  for  money? 
He  ran  his  mind  over  half  a  dozen  fellows  in  the 
Agricultural  Department  who  had  increased  the 
nation's  wealth  by  hundreds  of  millions  a  year. 
They  were  working  at  salaries  less  than  a  Wall 
Street  Junior  clerk  or  office  girl.  The  question  of 
salary  didn't  come  in  as  an  argument.  That  could 
be  dismissed.  But  there  was  the  bitter  fact,  he 
was  accomplishing  absolutely  nothing  by  continu 
ing  the  struggle,  nothing  more  than  a  woman 
yoked  to  a  Silenus  hoping  to  reform  him  when  he 
daily  grew  worse  under  her  eyes.  The  Govern 
ment  had  blocked  him.  The  party  had  blocked 
him.  What  was  the  pith  of  it  all,  anyway? 


60      FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Should  those  who  had  the  power  be  given  the  legal 
right  to  take  what  they  cared  to  seize?  It  was 
the  same  old  question  that  had  split  every  coun 
try  up  into  revolution.  And  closest  of  all,  keen 
est  of  all  arguments,  the  new  influence  that  had 
come  into  his  life,  possessing  it,  obsessing  it.  He 
might  put  her  out  of  his  thoughts  as  a  possibility. 
That  would  not  dull  the  edge  of  his  own  hunger. 
By  staying  on  he  barred  all  possibility  of  ultimate 
happiness,  perhaps  her  happiness:  yet,  if  he 
abandoned  the  fight  for  right,  he  would  be  un 
worthy  of  her.  Sooner  or  later  she  would  know, 
and,  though  she  might  remain  mute,  was  she  the 
one  to  make  semblance  of  what  she  did  not  feel? 
If  the  light  died  from  her  eye,  it  would  die  from 
his  life.  He  was  not  a  Silenus  to  guzzle  hog-like 
over  husks  when  the  life  had  gone.  Besides 
— Wayland  laughed  aloud — the  idea  of  her  na 
ture  permitting  a  Silenus  near  enough  to  breathe 
the  same  atmosphere  that  she  breathed  was  in 
conceivable.  There  was  one  chance — one  chance 
only — Get  the  issue  before  the  People,  squarely, 
fairly,  openly  before  the  People;  awaken  the 
People;  mass  the  law  of  the  snow  flake  to  the 
mighty  rush  of  the  avalanche;  let  the  People 
know,  force  the  People  to  pronounce  the  verdict. 
Wayland  thought  of  Bat  inside  the  cabin — ,  and 
laughed  bitterly.  He  rose  and  began  pacing  the 
edge  of  the  Eidge.  There  he  was,  back  in  the  old 
hopeless  circle. 


THE  CHOICE  61 

Her  touch  had  wrapped  him  in  a  vision  world ; 
but  across  the  clearness  of  the  vision  now  some 
how  obtruded  the  quiet  cynicism,  the  genial  scoff 
of  the  Senator's  arguments,  leaving  fierce  physical 
unrest  and  confused  cross-currents  of  desire.  A 
mist  seemed  to  blurr  all  life.  The  hemlocks  no 
longer  chanted  riotous  gladness.  There  was  a 
dirge  to-night  of  futility,  monotonous  age-old  eons 
of  useless  effort,  the  useless  fall  of  the  forest  giant 
to  the  dry  rot  of  slug  and  insect.  It  was  as 
if  Wayland's  spirit  stood  back  and  listened  to  the 
conflicting  contentions  of  two  other  men,  the  one 
who  wanted  to  breast  the  stream  and  the  one  who 
wanted  to  go  with  the  current;  one  full  of  blind, 
red-blood  courage,  the  other  full  of  cold  white- 
corpuscled  argument;  one  a  zealous  sportsman 
playing  the  game  for  the  game's  zest,  the  other  a 
quitter  because  he  foresaw  no  gain. 

Not  a  doubt  of  it ;  it  was  a  doleful  business,  this 
being  stuck  half-way  up  between  heaven  and  earth 
cut  off  from  everything  but  renunciation.  Why, 
was  he  doing  it?  What  was  to  be  gained?  It 
would  have  surprised  Wayland  if  he  had  disen 
tangled  out  of  his  own  weltering  thoughts  the  fact 
that  he  had  never  weighed  gain  as  an  argument 
before  Moyese  talked.  He  had  never  known  the 
coward's  fear  of  loss.  What  was  it  they  had  said 
to  him?  *  Blocked  at  every  turn,' — 'Has  your 
boasted  Federal  Government  taken  any  action?' 
— 'This  is  the  Service  you  are  loyal  to,'— 'Who  of 


62  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

the  public  gives  one  damn  for  right  or  wrong?7 
Had  it  really  come  to  that  ?  Was  that  the  seat  of 
the  trouble?  Did  the  public  care?  'Go  lean  fry 
ing  fat  for  posterity?7  All  those  voices  strident, 
scoffing;  then,  part  of  the  night's  voiceless  voices, 
that  other  undertone — i  No  thing  accomplished 
without  somebody  fighting  a  losing  battle,7 — 
4  What  so  heroic  about  a  fighter,  more  or  less 
going  down  beaten?7  It  was  nothing  heroic  at 
all  unless  you  happened  to  be  the  fighter.  And 
what  was  the  sense  of  accepting  a  challenge  to 
a  losing  battle?  'I  want  a  man  who  can 
fight  like  the  Devil.7  Well,  that  was  what 
the  whole  world  wanted — always  had  needed 
and  wanted;  and  he  and  hundreds  of  other 
Government  fellows  were  applicants  for  just  su'ch 
a  fighting  job.  What  was  it  that  comical  old  ser 
monizing  duffer  had  ranted  about?  Oh,  yes!  If 
the  Devil  (of  course,  there  wasn't  a  Devil),  if 
the  Devil  came  tempting  to-day  7twould  be  such 
a  place  as  this.7  'Riches,  he  would  proffer  as  of 
old,'  'the  biggest  gamble  of  all,7  'play  for  the 
biggest  stake  outside  of  Hell,7  'The  Fate  .  .  . 
of  the  Land  .  .  .  with  all  Time  looking  on 
.  .  .  since  ever  Time  began,'  'all  the  World 
looking  on  ...  asking  .  •.  .  keep  sacred 
as  the  Covenant  of  God  .  .  .  The  stakes  I7d 
play  for  .  .  .  if  I  were  young  .  .  .  I7dup 
.  .  .  I7d  up  .  .  .  I7d  up  .  .  .  stripped 
naked  of  very  hold-back  .  .  .  I7d  hurl  the  lie 
in  the  teeth  of  a  scoffing  world.  I7d  hurl  y7r 


THE  CHOICE  63 

traitor  leaders  huckstering  the  land's  good  for  sil 
ver.  .  .  .  Fight  .  .  .  right  . 
might  .  .  .  I'd  paint  the  words  in  letters  of 
blood  till  they  awakened  the  land.  .  .  .  I'd 
fight  .  .  .  fight  .  .  .  fight  till  they  had 
to  kill  every  man  of  my  kind  before  I'd 
down  .  .  ." 

The  old  man  had  been  like  the  storm  wind  of 
the  mountains  hurling  off  the  dead  leaves  of 
thought.  Wayland  paused  in  his  pacing.  The 
opal  peak  emerged  from  pearl  gray  cloud  wrack; 
a  silver  cross,  translucent,  unreal,  luminous,  a 
thing  of  dreams  winged  with  silver  light  beneath 
a  solitary  star,  eternal  as  God.  And  the  night 
wind  through  the  pines,  that  had  sounded  so  dole 
ful  but  a  moment  before,  became  the  jubilant  click 
ing  of  countless  castanets,  the  castanets  of  the  long 
pine  needles,  sounding  a  triumphant  chant  to  the 
touch  of  invisible  hands. 

"Wayland  stopped  pacing.  He  almost  stopped 
thinking.  The  consciousness,  the  realizing  sense 
of  her  presence,  of  her  touch,  of  a  something  more 
than  her  touch,  of  her  being  enveloping  his  in 
some  ethereal  fire,  went  over  the  Eanger  in  fiercely 
tender  flood  tides ;  this  time,  not  in  tumultuous  con 
fused  desire,  but  in  waves  of  strength,  in  visions 
from  which  the  mists  had  vanished,  daring  that 
laughed  with  gladness  over  life.  There  were  no 
longer  two  Waylands  in  conflict,  with  one  sneering 
and  looking  on.  "A  house  divided  against  itself 


64     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

shall  fall."  There  was  only  one,  with  the  blood 
of  mothers  in  his  veins,  whelmed  by  a  conscious 
ness  that  reached  back  far  as  the  consciousness  of 
the  race.  Somehow,  his  simple  manhood,  the  in 
heritance  in  his  blood  of  men  and  women,  who 
had  loved,  fused  the  conflict  of  his  nature  to  a 
singleness  of  purpose  and  won  peace  now. 

What  he  said  was:  "Come  on,  my  friend,  the 
enemy !  I 'm  right  here  on  the  job ;  nailed,  you  bet, 
long  as  she  does  it !  Just  to  come  alive  is  worth 
being  crucified." 

" Hullo,"  bawled  a  towsled  head  through  the 
cabin  window.  "Aren't  you  going  to  turn  in? 
It's  exactly  twelve  o'clock!  Darn  it  all!  Don't 
make  a  sleep-walking  Lady  Macbeth  tragedy  out 
of  it !  Chuck  the  bally  thing  and  come  on  down  to 
the  Valley !  Why  do  you  waste  your  life  pretend 
ing  you  are  Providence  steering  the  whole  earth? 
Chuck  it,  Dickie!  If  you  were  in  town,  I'd  give 
you  a  cocktail!  Got  anything  up  here?" 

Wayland  went  to  sleep  to  dream  one  of  those 
dreams  that  envelop  day  with  rain-bow  mist.  He 
dreamed  that  the  amethyst  gates  of  the  sun  had 
swung  ajar  flooding  life  with  countless  chariot 
eers  each  carrying  a  golden  spear,  and  as  they 
advanced  over  the  clouds  to  earth,  all  the  little 
purple  heather  bells  that  had  hung  their  heads 
during  the  night  to  keep  out  the  dew,  all  the 
waxy  chalices  of  the  winter-greens  pale  and  faint 
with  passion,  all  the  bells  nodding  to  the  wind, 
began  ringing — ringing  ten  thousand  golden 


THE  CHOICE  65 

bells;  and  tlie  painter's  brush,  multicolored  daz 
zling  knee-deep  in  the  Alpine  meadows,  flaunted 
countless  torches  of  carmine  flame  to  welcome 
back  the  day.  Then,  suddenly,  it  wasn't  a  sound 
of  bells  at  all.  It  was  her  voice,  her  voice  with 
the  golden  note  and  the  liquid  break  that  came 
when  he  had  surprised  Love  in  her  eyes;  and  it 
wasn't  the  warmth  of  the  Sun's  fan-shaped  shafts 
at  all;  it  was  the  warmth  of  her  lips  in  the  face 
of  the  picture  she  had  promised — the  face  above 
"the  Warrior."  When  he  awakened,  a  sprig  of 
everlasting  that  he  had  stuck  in  the  band  of  his 
Alpine  hat  had  blown  across  his  face. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHEREIN    ONE   PLAYS   AN    UNCONSCIOUS   PART 

Watch  a  snow  flake  as  it  falls!  Gentle  is  too 
rough  a  word  for  the  motion.  It  floats,  a  crystal 
cob-web  shot  with  the  glint  of  sun-jewels ;  tangible 
but  melting  to  your  touch,  evanescent  and  trans 
lucent  as  light ;  conceived  of  the  wind  that  bloweth 
where  it  listeth  and  the  gossamer  clouds  of  a  vague 
somewhere. 

Waveringly,  noiselessly,  so  noiselessly  it  comes 
that  you  do  not  catch  the  rustling  flutter  with  your 
ear,  but  with  a  sixth  sense  of  motion.  And  it 
transforms,  bewitches,  beautifies  what  it  touches. 

I  suppose  if  such  an  evanescent  thing  were  told 
that  it  and  it  alone  had  been  the  age-old,  time- 
immemorial  sculptor  of  the  granite  rocks ;  that  it 
and  it  alone — to  paraphrase  the  words  of  the 
scientists — had  rolled  away  the  door  from  the 
sepulchers  of  the  eternal  rocks  and  turned  a  planet 
into  a  sensate  earth  pulsing  with  growth — I 
suppose  if  a  snow  flake  were  told  such  heresy, 
it  would  die  of  its  own  amaze. 

This,  apropos  of  nothing  in  particular,  unless 
you  happen  to  understand  from  the  catagory  of 
your  own  experiences. 

66 


AN  UNCONSCIOUS  PART  67 

It  was  her  first  love-letter ;  and,  because  she  did 
not  know  she  was  writing  a  love-letter  she  wrote 
out  of  the  fulness  of  an  overflowing  heart.  Also 
the  hour  was  the  precise  hour  when  consciousness 
of  her  presence  had  gone  over  Wayland  in  flood 
tides  of  fierce  tenderness.  That  may  have  been 
a  mere  coincidence.  I  set  it  down  because  such 
coincidences  daily  touch  life. 

Here  is  the  letter. 

Twelve  O'clock. 

Are  you  a  'vision  fugitive,'  0  Eanger  Man? 
Do  you  know  that  I  have  seen  you  less  than  ten 
times  and  really  known  you  less  than  a  month? 
Is  it  a  dream  I  What  happened?  I  did  not  mean 
to  do  it.  I  did  not  want  it.  I  did  not  ask  it. 
Why  has  it  cornel  You  said  'best  gifts  came  un 
asked;  perhaps,  they  also  go  unsent!'  This  one 
can  never  go,  Dick.  I've  been  weaving  it  in  and 
out  for  three  whole  hours,  (no,  not  thinking,  I 
think  of  other  people,)  weaving  it  in  and  out  of 
every  strand  of  me.  I  know  now  I  have  been 
waiting  for  it  a  billion  years ;  ages  and  ages  ago 
when  you  and  I  were  cave  people  or  desert  run 
ners  like  the  20,000  B.  C.  skeleton  in  the  British 
Museum;  and  in  the  shuffle  of  atoms,  we  got  apart. 
We  shall  never  stray  again ;  for  I  have  locked  last 
night  in  my  heart.  Yesterday  I  could  look  up 
at  the  Mountain,  and  what  I  saw  was  the  snow 
cross,  cold  and  far  away.  To-night  I  look  up. 
The  Mountain  is  still  there  but  not  the  same — 
what  I  feel  is — you;  and  you  are  not  far  away. 
I  am  warm  with  happiness,  delirious  when  I  let 
myself  stop  thinking. 

I  have  tried  to  sleep  but  cannot.    Your  old 


68     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Mountain  has  been  talking  again.  I  can  see  the 
Cross  here  from  my  window  and  the  lone  star 
above  the  peak;  and  I  know  that  you  see  too. 
If  I  touched  the  telephone,  I  might  speak  to  you; 
but  I  can  write  more  frankly  than  I'd  ever  have 
courage  to  speak,  and  I  must  say  it.  It  is  all 
tumult.  I  do  not  understand,  but  Hope  is  strum 
ming  her  strings — I  hear  them  every  time  the 
wind  comes  down  from  the  Eidge.  Here  is  the 
Watts'  < Happy  Warrior,'  and  Dick — listen — I 
didn't  mean  it  as  a  token  when  I  offered  to  send 
it  up.  I  meant  it  as  a  rallying  cry ;  but  now  that 
you  take  it  as  a  token,  I  can't  say  that  it  isn't; 
only  I  really  didn't  mean  to  push  you  over  the 
edge  of  things  as  I  did.  I  didn't  mean  to  go 
over  the  edge  myself.  If  I  had  heard  Senator 
Moyese  talk,  I  couldn't  have  been  so  childish  and 
ignorant.  It  was  like  urging  you  to  jump  a  preci 
pice  and  break  your  neck.  I  know  now  what 
the  fight  means.  It  isn't  just  the  Valley.  It's 
the  Nation.  I  hadn't  any  right  to  let  my  (here 
a  word  was  crossed  and  blotted)  feeling  shove 
you  over.  Yet  if  you  jump  yourself,  I'll  not  pull 
a  gossamer  thread  to  draw  back.  I  haven't  any 
right. 

You  know  how  it  has  always  been  with  me — 
whisked  away  to  the  convent  at  Quebec  when  I 
was  four,  sent  to  that  New  York  finishing  school 
to  get  what  Father  called  '  world-sense  knocked 
into  my  religion.'  Well,  they  were  knocks  all 
right.  Then  England  and  Switzerland  and  my 
Father's  orders  to  come  back,  and  how  lonely 
and  apart  he  always  seems.  I  don't  understand. 
What  did  Moyese  mean  to-night  when  he  spoke  of 
'bow-and-arrow  aristocracy'?  Will  you  believe 
me  that  is  the  first  I  have  ever  heard  of  it? 


AN  UNCONSCIOUS  PART  69 

Who  is  Calamity?  Will  you  tell  me  if  you  know! 
Why  are  we  so  apart  from  all  the  people  of  the 
Valley?  What  is  a  i squaw  man'?  When  I  think, 
I  am  afraid  for  having  let  you  become  so  inter 
woven.  I  did  not  mean  to.  It  is  wholly  my 
fault.  The  thoughts  I  hardly  knew  myself  must 
have  been  weaving  up  into  this.  They  often  do. 
Father  and  Mr.  Williams  leave  at  daybreak  for 
the  Upper  Pass.  I  did  not  mean  to  write  so 
much,  but  our  old  Mountain  has  come  from  un 
der  a  cloud.  Anyway,  I  had  to  explain,  no,  I 
mean  write.  Explanations  never  do  explain;  but 
here's  the  picture  of  'The  Warrior.' 

"E.  MACD." 

Going  to  the  French  window  of  her  bedroom, 
Eleanor  called  down  to  old  Calamity's  room  be 
low.  To  her  surprise,  the  half-breed  woman  on 
the  instant  poked  her  head  above  the  balcony  rail 
ing  of  the  basement  quarters. 

" Going  to  the  Ridge  to-morrow,  Calamity?" 

"Oui,  Mademoiselle,  surement,"  pattered  Cal 
amity  softly  in  that  Cree  patois  which  is  neither 
French  nor  Indian. 

"Then,  take  this  up  to  Mr.  Wayland,  please!" 

As  she  withdrew  to  her  room,  Eleanor  became 
conscious  that  she  could  not  remember  a  day  since 
she  had  come  back  to  the  Valley  when  the  Cree 
half-breed  had  not  been  within  call  or  sight.  The 
girl  suddenly  pressed  both  hands  to  her  eyes. 
What  had  Moyese  meant? 

Once  among  the  pillows,  she  fell  into  the  life- 


70      FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

bathing  sleep  of  the  great  mountain  ozone-world. 
Was  it  a  dream;  or  had  Calamity  come  stealing 
through  the  French  window  to  stand  at  the  foot 
of  her  bed!  Waking  to  a  burst  of  sunlight  across 
her  face,  Eleanor  could  not  tell  in  the  least  whether 
the  memory  of  the  half-breed  woman  standing  in 
the  shadows  were  dream  or  reality.  The  sun  was 
coming  over  the  Eim  Eocks  in  a  fan-shaped  shield 
of  spear  shafts;  and  every  single  shaft  wafted 
down  thoughts  that  refused  to  lie  quiet.  Shafts 
that  have  a  trick  of  turning  your  heart  into  a  tar 
get  can't  be  shut  out  by  armor  proof. 

Daylight  restored  her  poise.  Her  first  instinct 
,was  to  recall  the  letter ;  but  Calamity  had  already 
set  off  for  the  Eidge.  The  thought  hardly  took 
form,  but  the  shadow  haunted  her.  If  It  were 
true,  he  would  surely  never  let  her  work  round  the 
ranch  houses  of  the  Valley.  Breakfast  passed  as 
usual,  alone  in  the  big  raftered  dining  room  after 
the  ranch  hands  had  gone,  the  lame  German  cook 
for  the  camp  wagons  hobbling  in  and  out  with  the 
dishes.  Stage  had  passed  long  since  and  the  mail 
lay  at  her  place,  where  the  German  had  spread 
a  white  square  above  the  oilcloth  of  the  long 
bench  table;  but  letters  and  papers  remained  un 
opened. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  those  midnight  thoughts  had 
been  morbid  as  midnight  thoughts  often  are.  It 
might  be  that  the  Valley  was  apart  from  them, 
not  they  apart  from  the  Valley.  Who  were  the 
neighbors  from  whom  her  father  stood  aside? 


AN  UNCONSCIOUS  PART  71 

There  was  the  Senator  in  the  white  house  across 
the  Kiver.  "Well,  the  Senator  spent  the  most  of 
his  time  in  Smelter  City  forty  miles  away,  and  in 
Washington.  Then,  there  were  the  Williams  of 
the  Mission  House  with  their  only  boy  and  eighty 
or  a  hundred  Indian  children;  gentlefolk  keeping 
up  the  amenities  of  refined  life,  spreading  the  con 
tagion  of  beautiful  example  like  an  irrigation  plot 
widening  slowly  over  arid  sage  brush.  Surely 
her  father  was  held  in  esteem  by  them;  and  they 
stood  for  all  that  was  best  in  the  Valley.  Be 
low  the  ranch  houses  came  what  was  known  as 
"the  English  Colony, "  a  scattering  of  young 
bachelors  playing  at  ranching,  whose  rendezvous 
was  the  pretty  Swiss  chalet  known  as  "the  Book- 
ery,"  where  a  wonderful  little  young-old  lady 
with  red  wig  and  hectic  flush  dispensed  lavish  hos 
pitality  and  canned  music  and  old  port  behind  the 
eminent  respectability  of  a  stool-pigeon  in  the  per 
son  of  a  card-loving  husband.  The  lady's  hus 
band  called  himself  i '  colonel. ' '  The  Valley  called 
him  one  of  those  "no-good  Englishmen' ';  but  the 
Valley  may  have  been  mistaken;  for  even  to  the 
ranch  house  had  come  tales  of  outraged  honor  in 
the  person  of  the  "no-good  husband "  bursting  in 
on  games  of  cards  with  wild  charges  which  only 
the  payment  of  big  money  could  suppress — sup 
press  you  understand,  purely  for  the  sake  of  the 
lady:  outraged  honor  could  accept  no  atonement. 
Then  the  lady  would  flit  for  the  winter  to  those 
beauty  doctors  of  Paris  and  New  York,  who  oper- 


72   FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

ate  on  wrinkles  and  lay  up  muniments  for  fresh 
campaigns;  and  the  " colonel' '  would  betake  him 
self  to  resorts  where  balm  is  accorded  wounded 
honour;  while  loose-mouthed,  simple-eyed  young 
fellows  went  East  for  the  winter  lighter  as  to 
purse,  wiser  as  to  the  ways  of  paying  for  pleas 
ure.  Altogether,  it  was  not  surprising  her  father 
kept  apart  from  "the  English  Colony,"  Eleanor 
reflected.  She  passed  out  to  the  piazza,  spanning 
all  sides  of  the  ranch  house. 

It  was  a  sun-bathed,  sun-kissed,  sun-fused 
world.  The  Eiver  flowed  liquid  silver  jubilant 
and  singing.  The  morning  mists  rolled  up  prim 
rose  spangled  with  jewels,  while  over  all  lay  such 
light  as  hypnotized  the  senses  into  a  sort  of  daz 
zled  dream  world.  Ashes  of  roses !  There  were 
no  ashes  here.  It  was  the  rose,  itself;  a  world 
veiled  in  gold  mist,  wind-blown,  flame-fired  of  joy, 
little  cressets  of  fire  edging  every  ridge.  The 
sheep  browsing  in  the  Valley,  the  fleece-clouds 
herding  mid  the  winds  of  the  upper  peaks,  you 
hardly  knew  which  shone  whiter.  The  burnished 
mountain  with  its  silver  cross  and  wings  of  light, 
opal  about  the  peaks,  melting  in  fading  lines  about 
the  base,  with  the  middle  distances  lost  in  gashed 
purple  shadows,  might  have  been  a  thing  of  airy 
fancy.  So  might  the  dark  forested  Kidge  where 
the  evergreens  stood  sentinels  among  wisps  of 
cloud.  And  everywhere,  all  pervasive,  sifting 
'through  the  shadows  of  silvered  pine  needles  and 


AN  UNCONSCIOUS  PART  73 

trembling  poplars,  permeated  the  cinnamon  smell 
of  the  barky  forest  world,  resinous  of  balsam, 
spicy  with  the  tang  of  life. 

She  could  see  the  mountain  streams  where  they 
laughed  down  the  Eidge  in  wind-tattered  spray. 
With  the  glass,  too,  she  could  see  a  little  blue 
wreath  of  man-made  smoke  curling  up  from  the 
evergreens ;  and  waves  of  happiness,  absurd  warm 
glowing  happiness,  broke  over  her,  the  sheer  glad 
ness  of  being  alive.  Whatever  sinister  thing  kept 
her  father  apart,  it  was  here  she  belonged — she 
knew  it  now — to  the  great  spacious  life-stimulat 
ing  West;  to  the  world  resinous  with  imprisoned 
sunbeams;  not  to  the  lands  of  sky  shut  out  by 
twenty  story  roofs  and  pea-soup  fogs  and  sickly 
anaemic  views  of  life.  Life  was  good.  She  drank 
of  it  and  called  it  good  as  in  creation's  prime. 

Once  she  called  Central  up  on  the  telephone. 
Central  answered  that  the  Eidge  line  had  been  cut. 
Such  duties  as  men's  hands  could  not  do  round 
ranch  houses,  she  finished  in  a  dream,  turning  with 
a  touch  the  house  into  a  home;  flowers  for  the 
middle  of  the  big  table,  dishes  pitchforked  down 
replaced  in  order,  corner  cobwebs  speared  with  a 
duster  on  a  broom,  Navajo  rugs  uncurled  and 
squared,  stale  cooking  expelled  from  littered 
shelves,  flies  pursued  to  the  last  ditch,  breaks  in 
the  mosquito  wire  round  the  piazza  tacked  up, 
heaps  of  mended  socks  and  overalls  sent  out  to 
the  bunk  house  for  the  ranch  hands,  milk  cans 
buried— it  had  always  been  one  of  the  absurdities 


74      FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

she  was  going  to  reform,  that  people  used  canned 
milk  in  a  cow  country;  but,  unfortunately,  the 
obstacle  to  that  reform  was  that  cows  could  not 
be  milked  on  horseback. 

After  mid-day  meal,,  she  ensconced  herself  in  a 
steamer  chair  on  the  piazza  facing  the  mountain ; 
but  her  book  lay  face  downward.  It  was  a  book 
on  coniferous  trees.  She  had  thought  the  Valley 
monotonous  when  she  had  first  come  back.  Now 
she  knew  it  never  remained  the  same  for  two 
whole  hours.  The  dazzling  white  of  morning  had 
given  place  to  the  yellow  glow  of  afternoon.  The 
Eiver  that  had  flowed  quicksilver  now  swept  sea 
ward  pure  amber  rilled  with  gold.  The  fleece 
clouds  herded  by  wandering  winds  had  massed  to 
towering  cumulus  where  the  sheet  lightnings 
played ;  and  the  Mountain  where  the  silver  snow- 
cross  had  glistened  in  the  morning  seemed  to  have 
changed  perspective,  to  have  retreated  and  with 
drawn  to  a  weird  upper  world.  You  no  longer 
saw  the  wind-blown  cataracts.  Purpling  shad 
ows,  palpable  sabling  mournful  ghost-forms, 
folded  and  wrapped  the  Eidge  with  here  and  there 
shafts  of  slant  light,  yellow  as  bars  of  gold.  You 
could  no  longer  hear  the  rampant  roar  of  streams 
disimprisoned  from  snow  by  mid-day  sun.  With 
the  slant  light  came  the  sibilant  hush,  the  quiet 
tangible. 

She  reclined  very  still  in  the  steamer  chair. 
Life  and  love  and  mystery  wrapped  her  round, 


AN  UNCONSCIOUS  PART  75 

the  great  reverie  of  the  race,  the  ecstasy  of  de 
votees  that  sent  to  death  and  crusade  in  the  Mid 
dle  Ages,  the  lovelight  of  life  brooding  warm 
and  radiant.  She  no  longer  saw  the  shining 
pageant  of  sunlight  on  the  argent  fields  of  an  in 
finite  universe;  the  sparks  and  spangles  of  light 
in  silver  cataracts;  a  world  veiled  in  gold  mist, 
flame-fired  of  joy,  little  cressets  of  rose  edging 
every  sky-line.  She  was  possessed,  obsessed, 
bathed,  enveloped  in  a  flame  of  new  life.  If  she 
thought  at  all,  'twas  in  the  symbol  of  the  old 
Apostle,  "in  Him  we  live  and  move  and  have 
our  being."  She  recalled  that  God  had  been  de 
fined  in  the  consciousness  of  the  race  as  Love. 
Deep  draughts  of  new  existence  whelmed  her. 
No  longer  life  coursed  somnolent  through  un 
conscious  veins.  Life  ran  riotous  of  gladness 
tingling  to  a  living  joy  so  poignant  it  became  pain. 
Was  it  fool- joy  born  of  swifter  pulse  and  time- 
old  inheritance  in  the  flesh?  Was  it  the  rhap 
sody  of  self -hypnotism,  which  ancients  would  have 
called  vision?  Of  such  dreams  does  creation 
spring  full  born  and  enfleshed.  Of  such  dreams 
does  heroism  laugh  at  death.  Of  such  dreams 
does  life  invest  the  daily  round  with  rain-bow 
mist,  with  the  spectrum  gamut  of  all  the  colors 
that  blend  to  the  pure  white  light  of  daily  life.  As 
a  lense  splits  up  light,  so  love  had  brought  out 
the  hidden  colors  of  existence,  of  eternity ;  as  she 
dreamed,  eternity  itself  seemed  short. 

Then  came  the  restlessness  that  had  shaken 


76   FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Wayland  on  the  Bidge  the  night  before,  the  fire 
that  tests  the  vessel;  and  whether  the  life  go  to 
pieces  depend  on  whether  the  vessel  be  both  strong 
and  clean.  Yet  she  was  not  afraid.  She  remem 
bered  their  talk  the  night  before  of  the  snow  flake 
falling  to  the  same  law  as  the  avalanche;  and  was 
she  not  also  a  part  of  the  Great  Law  1 

She  knew  he  could  not  be  free  till  six.  She 
must  not  go  up  to  the  Eidge.  Last  night,  she  had 
gone  heedlessly.  She  could  never  go  so  again. 
Then,  she  realized  why  the  Missionary's  wife  had 
linked  her  fate  with  Williams' — a  frail  bit  of 
china  putting  itself  to  the  coarse  uses  of  earthen 
ware — washing,  scrubbing,  sandpapering  three 
generations  of  morals  and  bodies  to  make  an  ideal 
real.  It  was  Wayland  who  had  first  described 
Mrs.  Williams  in  that  metaphor:  "a  piece  of  Bis 
que  or  Dresden,"  he  had  said,  "and  what  those 
lousy  Indians  need  is  a  wooden  wash  tub  with  lots 
of  soft  soap."  Then,  she  wanted  to  see  Mrs. 
Williams,  to  study  her  with  this  new  knowledge. 

A  picket  fence  in  imitation  of  a  home  in  the 
East  ran  round  the  Mission  House.  Pitiful  at 
tempts  at  gardening  lined  the  gravel  entrance, 
periwinkle  dried  up  in  the  blazing  Western  sun, 
sickly  scented  geraniums  that  shrivelled  to  the 
night  frost,  altheas  that  did  better  but  refused  to 
bloom.  "They  don't  transplant  East  to  West, 
any  better  than  they  do  West  to  East.  Better  fol 
low  the  Senator's  advice  and  domesticate  our 


AN  UNCONSCIOUS  PABT  77 

Western  ones.'7.  Then,  the  whimsical  thought 
came  perhaps  that  was  what  her  father  had  done 
with  her. 

The  drone  of  a  man's  voice  from  the  Mission 
Parlor  surprised  her;  for  Mr.  Williams  had  gone 
off  with  her  father  to  the  Upper  Pass. 

"Here  is  Miss  Eleanor,  herself!  We  were  just 
speaking  about  you,  Eleanor!  This  is  an  old 
friend  of  your  father's,  Mr.  Matthews  from  Sas 
katchewan  ! ' ' 

A  little  woman  in  gray  drew  Eleanor  inside  the 
Mission  Parlor,  a  little  woman  with  a  white  trans 
parent  skin  trenched  by  lines  of  care,  but  some 
how,  when  you  looked  twice,  they  were  lines  of 
beauty  chiseled  by  time.  She  was  garbed  in  gray 
and  her  hair  was  almost  white,  but,  from  the  first 
time  Eleanor  had  looked  at  her  hands,  the  girl 
wanted  to  kiss  and  cover  them  with  her  own — they 
were  such  beautifully  kept  hands  but  so  gnarled 
and  misshapen  with  toil.  There  had  been  only  one 
child ;  but  there  were  eighty  Indian  children  in  the 
Mission  School.  Had  the  love  dream  paid  toll  for 
such  toil — Eleanor  had  asked  herself  when  first 
she  had  seen  the  Missionary's  wife.  Now  she 
knew  that,  whether  the  love  dream  paid  toll  or 
not,  love  would  do  and  was  doing  the  same  thing 
time  without  end  and  everywhere. 

Then,  she  became  aware  of  the  massive  form  of 
a  man  topped  by  an  enormous  head  of  white  hair 
rising  in  links  and  hinges  from  a  chair  in  the  cor- 


78      FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

ner  till  his  figure  towered  above. the  little  woman. 

"So  this— is  Eleanor— MacDonald?  Well, 
well,  well!" 

He  was  shaking  hands  at  each  word.  "A  knew 
your  grandfather  well.  Many's  the  time  we  have 
raced  the  dogtrains  down  MacKenzie  River  an7 
the  canoes  down  the  Saskatchewan !  'Twas  your 
grandfather  set  the  bagpipes  skirling  when  Gover 
nor  Simpson  used  to  come  galloping  down  the 
Columbia  in  the  forties  with  his  paddlers  splitting 
the  wind,  a  dark  fearsome  man,  child,  but  a  brave 
one,  tho'  his  heart  was  hard  as  his  hand,  and  his 
hand  was  iron — Bras  de  Fer,  Arm  of  Iron,  the 
Indians  called  him;  for  his  left  hand,  he  lost  in  a 
duel;  and  his  false  hand  was  a  true  hand  of  iron 
metal  that  made  many  a  lazy  voyageur  bite  the 
dust.  Bless  me,  but  you  are  a  MacDonald  to  your 
dainty  feet — "  holding  her  off  from  him  at  arm's 
length.  "Eyes  true  to  pedigree,  and  the  curly 
hair,  and  the  short  upper  lip,  the  only  one  of  all 
the  MacDonalds  that's  kept  the  race  type.  'Tis 
good  to  see  you!  A'm  right  glad  to  see  you! 
A'm  gladder  than  you  know — " 

Eleanor  did  not  wait  for  any  second  thought. 
"And  did  you  know  my  mother's  people,  too?" 

The  old  man  sat  back  in  his  corner.  "No,  A 
cannot  say  A  did!  A  had  left  the  Company  an' 
was  building  railway  bridges  in  the  Eockies  when 
your  father  left  Canada." 

She  felt  the  hot  flush  mount. 

"Such  an  absurd  thing,  Eleanor,"  Mrs.  Will- 


AN  UNCONSCIOUS  PART  79 

iams  was  explaining.  "Mr.  Matthews  came  by 
the  Holy  Cross  last  night.  Mr.  Wayland  told 
Calamity  to  show  him  which  way  to  turn ;  and  she 
sent  him  the  wrong  way,  to  the  cow-boy  camp, 
you  know!  He  had  to  sleep  out  all  night  at  our 
very  door.  Such  a  shame !  That  put  him  so  late 
that  he  missed  Mr.  Williams.  You  know  they 
have  gone  to  the  Upper  Pass  and  can't  possibly 
be  back  for  weeks — excuse  me,  some  of  my  school 
people  seem  to  want  me, ' '  and  she  flitted  from  the 
room.  To  Eleanor,  her  life  seemed  a  constant 
flitting  at  the  beck  of  bootless  duties,  nagging 
duties  that  only  an  expert  time  keeper  of  Heaven 
could  credit. 

"Yes!  Sent  me  a  mile  along  the  road  in  the 
wrong  direction — into  a  nest  of  mid-night  birds. 
A  nice  bunch  o  '  beauties,  too,  hatching  some  Devil 
plot  to  ruin  the  poor  sheepmen!  A  man  in  a 
white  vest  was  there,  who  by  the  same  token  didn't 
belong;  tho'  A'm  no  so  sure  he  was  any  better 
than  his  company.  They  didn't  see  me!  A 
didna'  just  speak  to  them,  but  A  heard  them 
plain  enough, — '  leave  for  the  South  at  once ; '  and 
'  crowd  'em  to  beat  Hell, '  and  '  send  'em  over  with 
out  a  push'  an'  'see  that  no  harm  comes  to  the 
boy' — Eh,  why,  what  is  the  matter?'' 

Eleanor  had  sprung  forward  with  white  lips. 

"It's  Fordie !  He's  taking  the  sheep  to  the  Eim 
Eocks  with  the  Mexican  herders.  Don't  frighten 
his  mother !  It  may  not  be  too  late !  He  may 
not  h^.ve  reached  the  Eim — " 


80     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 
" Let's  telephone  that  Banger  fellow?" 

Then,  it  all  dawned  on  her,  the  deadly,  suave, 
incredibly  malicious  pre-planned  thing! 

"The  wires  had  been  cut  since  morning,"  she 
said. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHILE   LAW    MAKKS   TIME,    CRIME   SCORES 

They  did  not  tell  the  boy's  mother. 

The  German  cook  hitched  the  fastest  bronchos 
to  the  yellow  buckboard  with  the  front  wheel 
brake;  and,  the  old  frontiersman  flourishing  the 
reins,  they  had  whisked  off  for  the  Eidge  trail 
before  Mrs.  Williams  could  return  to  the  Mission 
Parlor. 

"The  Eanger  will  be  able  to  tell  whether  the 
sheep  have  passed  down  the  Eidge,"  she  ex 
plained. 

The  old  man  caught  the  light  on  her  face  as 
she  spoke  the  name.  It  was  like  the  flash  in  the 
dark  that  betrays  a  diamond,  or  the  scintilla  of 
light  through  the  leaves  that  tells  of  an  Alpine 
lake;  but  he  made  no  comment  except  to  the 
ponies. 

"Go  it,  little  ones!  Make  time!  Split  the 
wind!  Show  y'r  heels!  Tear  the  air  to  tatters ! 
there!"  And  he  whirled  the  whip  with  the  skill 
of  all  the  old  Adam  stirring  within  him,  while  the 
buckboard  went  forward  with  a  bounce. 

"We  can't  take  the  wagon  up  yon  Eidge  trail 


81 


82      FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

"No,  but  I  can  climb  straight  up  and  not  mind 
the  switch  back,  if  you'll  wait." 

He  muttered  some  commonplace  about  "true 
Westerner;"  and,  springing  out,  she  had  gone 
scrambling  up  the  slope  avoiding  delay  of  the  zig 
zag  by  climbing  almost  straight. 

Quizzically,  the  old  man  gazed  after  her;  the 
first  hundred  feet  were  easy,  a  mossed  slope  with 
padded  foot-hold.  Then  came  steep  ground  slip 
pery  with  pine  needles;  but  the  mountain  laurel 
and  ground  juniper  gave  hand  grip;  and  she 
swung  herself  up  past  the  third  tier  of  the  switch 
back  where  the  Eidge  arose  a  rock  face  and  trees 
with  two  notches  and  one  blaze  marked  the  lower 
bounds  of  the  National  Forests.  Here  he  saw  her 
run  along  the  bridle  trail  marked  by  one  notch 
and  one  blaze:  then,  she  was  swinging  over  mo 
raine  slopes  to  the  fifth  bench  of  the  trail.  There 
she  disappeared  round  a  jut  of  rock — he  remem 
bered  a  mountain  spring  trickled  out  at  this  place 
bridged  by  spruce  poles.  Then  he  noticed  that 
the  cumulous  clouds  which  had  been  flashing  sheet 
lightning  all  afternoon,  were  massing  and  darken 
ing  and  lowering  closer  over  the  Valley,  with  zig 
zag  jags  of  live  fire  down  to  the  ground  and 
sounds  more  like  the  crack  of  a  whip  or  splinter 
of  wood  than  thunder.  The  cliff  swallows 
dipped  almost  to  the  grass ;  and  the  flowers  were 
hanging  their  heads  in  miniature  umbrellas. 
All  the  trembling  poplars  and  cotton-woods  seemed 
to  be  furled  waiting.  Then,  the  lower  side  of  the 


CRIME  SCORES  83 

slate  clouds  frayed  in  the  edge  of  a  sweepy  gar 
ment  to  sheets  and  fringes  of  rain.  A  little 
tremor  ran  through  the  leaves.  The  horses  laid 
back  their  ears. 

"We'll  get  it,"  said  the  old  man  tightening  the 
reins. 

She  had  paused  for  breath  round  the  buttress  of 
a  gray  crag  when  she  noticed  the  churn  of  yeasty 
blackness  blotting  out  the  Valley  and  felt  the 
hushed  heat  of  the  air.  A  jack  rabbit  went  whip 
ping  past  at  long  bounds.  The  last  rasp  of  a 
jay's  scold  jangled  out  from  the  trees.  Then,  she 
heard  from  the  hushed  Valley,  the  low  flute  trill 
of  a  blue  bird's  love  song.  Ever  afterwards, 
either  of  those  bird  notes,  the  scurl  of  the  jay  or 
the  golden  melody  of  the  blue  warbler,  brought 
her  joyous,  terrible  thoughts,  too  keen  to  the  very 
quick  of  being  for  either  words  or  tears;  for  a 
horseman  had  turned  the  crag  leading  his  broncho. 
It  was  the  Eanger  in  his  sage  green  Service  suit 
wearing  a  sprig  of  everlasting  in  his  Alpine  hat. 

"Why,  I've  been  trying  to  get  you  by  telephone 
all  day,"  he  said,  "but  the  wires  are  cut — " 

In  the  light  of  the  sudden  strength  on  his  face, 
she  forgot  the  brooding  storm,  the  impending 
horror. 

"Has  Fordie  brought  the  sheep  down?" 

"Yes,  ages  ago;  he  passed  at  noon  with  the 
whole  bunch,  fifteen  thousand  of  'em,  strung  along 
the  trail  from  the  top  of  the  Eidge  to  the  bottom. 


84     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Don't  you  see  how  they  skinned  every  branch? 
That's  why  the  cattlemen  hate  'em!  Ford  will 
be  on  the  Kim  Mesas  now.  Why;  anything 
wrong  I ' ' 

She  did  not  remember  till  afterwards  how  it 
was  she  had  met  both  his  hands  with  her  own  as 
she  repeated  the  old  frontiersman's  report.  She 
knew,  if  time  stopped  and  storm  split  the  welkin, 
it  would  be  all  the  same.  She  felt  the  heat  hush 
come  up  from  the  Valley,  felt  the  quivering  pause 
of  the  waiting  air,  the  noiseless  flutter  of  the 
foliage,  the  awed  quiet,  then  the  exquisite  tingling 
pain  of  her  own  being, — 

* t  Eleanor,  look  at  me !  Look  in  my  eyes !  Look 
up  at  me — " 

She  felt  the  rush  of  her  being  to  meet  and 
blend  and  fuse  in  the  flame  of  his  love.  Then, 
she  looked  up.  His  eyes  drank  hers  in  one  poised 
moment  of  delirious  recognition,  of  tempestuous 
tenderness.  The  world  swam  out  of  ken.  All 
but  the  fluted  melody  of  the  blue  bird;  and  she 
knew  they  must  always  sound  together,  the  trill 
and  the  rasp,  the  blue  bird  and  the  jay,  the  true 
and  the  false,  love  and  its  counterfeit. 

"We  go  into  this  fight  together,"  he  said  very 
quietly,  "And  forever!"  He  placed  the  sprig 
of  everlasting  in  her  hand.  "You  can  count  me 
on  the  firing  line. ' ' 

Then  he  had  thrown  the  reins  over  his  broncho 's 
neck,  headed  the  horse  back  up  the  Ridge  and  was 
slithering  down  the  steep  slope  giving  her  hand- 


CRIME  SCORES  85 

hold  as  of  steel-springs.  So  short  was  the  in 
terval,  it  could  not  be  measured  in  time.  Yet 
it  had  ri vetted  eternity.  She  saw  the  rolling 
clouds  of  ink  writhing  up  the  Valley  turning  every 
thing  to  blackness :  yet  she  did  not  know  it.  The 
little  flutter  of  air  changed  to  whiplashes  and 
puffs  of  wind  that  curled  the  black  hair  forward 
over  her  unhatted  face  in  a  frame.  Wayland 
looked  at  her  and  felt  his  masterdom  going  to 
those  same  winds;  for  the  pace  had  painted  her 
ivory  cheeks,  not  rose  color,  but  the  deep  flame 
of  the  wild  flower.  Some  day,  perhaps, — no  mat 
ter;  he  set  his  teeth  and  screwed  the  whipcord 
muscles  taut;  for  the  moraine  stones  had  begun 
to  roll,  and  there  was  a  zig-zag  flash  of  lightning 
that  sent  fire  balls  sizzling  over  the  rock.  He 
braced  her  to  the  leap  down  the  steep  sliding 
moraine,  and  felt  the  frenzy  of  joy  from  her  touch. 

" There!  We  took  the  jump  together!  You 
didn't  push  me  over  the  edge  of  things,"  he  said, 
as  their  feet  touched  the  pine  needle  slope. 

This  time,  the  lightning  came  with  a  ripping 
splintering  rocking  echo. 

"It's  like  Love  and  Life  racing  in  the  picture," 
she  laughed  back  and  they  bounded  into  the  buck- 
board,  Wayland  standing  braced  behind  the  seat, 
"to  stop  her  kiting  down  the  hill  if  we  break 
loose,"  he  said;  she,  forward  with  the  driver,  feet 
braced  to  the  iron  foot-rest,  hands  holding  the 
seat-guard.  Then,  the  brim  of  his  felt  hat  flap 
ping,  the  bronchos'  ears  laid  back,  necks  craned 


86   FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

out,  the  old  man  whirling  the  whip,  they  were  off 
for  the  Eim  Eocks.  The  breaking  storm,  the 
whipping  winds,  the  wild  pace,  the  rush  of  the 
fringed  rain,  seemed  a  part  of  the  furious  ex 
altation  breaking  the  bounds  of  her  own  con 
sciousness. 

" Cross  the  ford,  Sir,"  shouted  the  Banger 
bending  forward,  "it's  shorter  than  the  bridge;" 
and  her  hair  tossed  in  his  face  as  the  buckboard 
splashed  into  the  Eiver  and  bounced  up  the  far 
side  with  hind  wheels  swaying. 

"Are  y'  all  right,  there?"  called  the  old  driver 
over  his  shoulder. 

"Stay  with  it,"  yelled  Wayland,  "straight 
ahead  where  the  road  cuts  the  Eim  Eocks." 

"We're  splitting  the  air  all  right,"  shouted  the 
old  man.  "Ye  mind  y'  talked  of  sawing  air. 
Split  it,  man,  an'  y'll  get  somewhere." 

Up  a  hummock,  down  a  ravine,  over  a  fallen 
log  with  a  hurdle  jump  that  threatened  to  break 
the  buckboard 's  back. 

"Are  ye  there  yet?"  called  the  old  man. 

"Split  the  wind,  Sir,"  shouted  Wayland;  and 
the  rig  went  rattling  up  the  red  earth  road  of 
the  Eim  Eocks  not  a  wheel's  width  from  the 
edge. 

"We're  leaving  the  storm  behind;  look.back," 
she  said. 

Up  the  Valley  swept  the  rains  in  a  wall  of 
whipped  spray  jagged  by  the  zig-zag  streaks  of 
lightning. 


CRIME  SCORES  87 

' ' Hold  on  till  we  turn  the  next  switch  back/' 
warned  the  Eanger.  The  blackboard  wheeled  a. 
point  as  he  spoke  and  the  bronchos  floundered  to 
a  fagged  trot.  They  saw  it  coming:  the  rain 
wall,  frayed  at  the  edge  to  a  fringe,  the  wind 
lashing  their  faces,  the  red  rocks  of  the  battle 
ments  jutting  through  the  cloud  wrack  spectral 
and  ominous.  A  toothed  edge  of  rock  above,  then 
a  belt  of  cloud  cut  by  the  darting  wings  of  the 
countless  swallows. 

The  trees  of  the  Eidge  across  the  Valley  seemed 
to  bend  and  snap.  There  was  a  funnelling 
roar,  sucking  up  earth  and  air,  trees  and  brush 
wood;  whips  and  lashes  and  splintering  crashes 
of  rain  and  wind  and  jagged  light-lines;  the 
bronchos  cowering  against  the  inner  wall  of  the 
trail.  Then  the  funnelling  wind  tore  the  pin 
nacled  rock  tops  clear  of  the  billowing  mist. 

" There  goes  your  hat,  Sir,"  cried  Wayland  as 
the  black  felt  went  sailing  down  the  precipice. 

"What's  that!"  demanded  the  old  man,  spring 
ing  from  the  seat  and  pointing  upward  with  his 
whip. 

Over  the  edge  of  the  sky  line,  on  the  rimmed  red 
battlements,  jumping,  jumping,  jumping;  as  sheep 
jump  at  shearing  time  from  the  hot  center  to  the 
cool  outside,  or  over  the  backs  of  one  another  in 
winter  cold,  when  the  outer  line  jumps  to  the 
huddled  center;  came  the  herd  in  a  gray  woolly 
shapeless  whirling  mass!  Shouts,  cries,  shrill 


88   FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

bleatings,  storm  muffled  bang,  bang  and  thud  of 
guns!  Just  for  an  instant,  emerged  from  the 
mist  on  the  skyline  of  the  battlements  the  figure 
of  a  man  in  sheep-skin  chaps,  a  riderless  white 
horse,  shadows  of  other  men,  the  sheep  in  a  living 
torrent  pouring  over  into  the  nothingness  of  mist; 
then  a  boy,  a  little  boy,  riding  hatless,  craning  far 
forward  over  the  neck  of  his  pinto  pony,  shout 
ing,  waving,  screaming,  trying  to  head  the  sheep 
back  from  the  precipice  edge ! 

"The  dastard  coward,  blackguard  Hell- 
hatched  hounds  I"  roared  the  old  man,  shaking  his 
impotent  fist.  Then  he  funnelled  his  hands  and 
shouted  the  lad's  name. 

It  happened  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  The 
man  in  the  sheep-skin-chaps  clubbed  his  rifle  at 
the  galloping  pony.  The  pinto  reared,  flung  back, 
pitched  over  the  edge  of  the  Eim  Kocks.  Then 
the  cloud  blot,  earth  and  air  sponged  into  the  wet 
blur  of  a  washed  slate,  shrieking  furies  of  pelter- 
ing  rain,  a  roar  of  the  hurricane  wind,  a  blinding 
flash,  the  air  torn  to  tatters!  The  cloud  burst 
hurled  down  in  sheets,  the  red  clay  road  runnel- 
ling  flood  torrents.  Wayland  had  caught  her  un 
der  shelter  of  the  rock  wall.  The  old  man  hurtled 
to  the  heads  of  the  shivering  bronchos,  gripping 
both  bridles.  A  splintering  crash  that  rocketted 
from  crag  to  crag  and  rumbled  below  their  feet; 
and  the  thing  was  over  quick  as  it  had  come.  The 
funnelling  whirl  of  clouds  eddied  over  the  Pass 
behind  the  Holy  Cross  Mountain;  the  opal  peak 


CRIME  SCORES  89 

radiant  and  dazzling  above  the  Valley;  the  air  a 
burst  of  yellow  sunlight  quivering  in  the  smok 
ing  rain  mist;  the  red  battlement  rocks  above 
dripping  and  bare ;  and  somewhere  a  song  sparrow 
trilling  to  the  tinkle  of  the  subsiding  waters.  A 
roil  of  cloud  rolled  from  below. 

The  sound  came  first,  smothered  and  pain- 
piercing;  then  the  old  frontiersman  had  uttered 
something  between  a  curse  and  a  groan.  She 
sprang  from  shelter  and  looked  over  the  edge. 
Jumbled  at  the  foot  of  the  pinnacled  red  rocks 
heaved  a  writhing  mass,  a  weltering  maimed 
horror.  On  the  outer  edge,  arms  under  head,  face 
to  sky,  tossed  backwards,  lay  the  body  of  the 
boy  beside  the  pinto  pony,  the  neck  of  the  horse 
broken  under  in  the  fall,  the  child  pitched  beyond 
the  mass  by  the  double  turn  of  his  falling  horse. 

For  a  moment  none  of  the  three  uttered  a  wori. 
She  was  trembling  so  that  she  could  not  speak. 
There  were  tears  in  the  old  man's  eyes.  To  Way- 
land's  face  had  come  a  look.  It  was  like  the  blue 
flash  of  a  pistol  shot.  The  pupils  of  his  eyes 
had  f ocussed  to  pin  points  of  fire.  He  moistened 
his  lips. 

"May  Hell  be  both  deep  and  hot !"  he  said. 

It  was  the  cry  of  the  primal  man  beneath  all 
the  culture  of  the  schools  that  disprove  Hell;  the 
cry  of  human  red-blooded  manhood  against  all 
the  white-corpuscled  sickly  sentimentality  that 
ever  sacrifices  innocence  on  the  altar  of  guilt. 


90     FEEEBOOTEES  OF  THE  WILDEENESS 

While  the  Law  marked  time,  the  swift  feet  of 
crime  had  not  paused  nor  slackened  pace.  While 
the  Law  argued,  learnedly,  disputatiously,  with 
the  handing  up  and  the  handing  down  of  inane 
decisions,  Crime  scored;  and  Who  or  What  tal 
lied?  The  men  round  the  fire  the  night  before  in 
the  cow-camp,  the  men  of  "the  bunco  game"  had 
stacked  cards  and  played  trump;  but  unfor 
tunately,  they  had  jumbled  the  white-vested 
fighter's  orders  about  the  boy.  The  cattlemen 
had  taken  care  of  themselves  after  a  code  not 
honored  by  the  law  of  nations. 

Also,  they  had  gone  into  the  fight  together: 
the  one  who  saw  the  right  but  did  not  un 
derstand  the  fight;  the  one  who  understood 
the  fight  but  sometimes  lost  his  vision  of  the 
right;  and  the  one  who  saw  in  the  fight  for 
right,  not  the  quarrel  of  a  Valley,  or  a  Fac 
tion,  or  a  Eing,  but  the  saving  of  the  Nation, 
the  repudiation  of  a  world  lie,  the  welding  of  right 
and  might  into  an  eternal  harmony. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  VICTIM   OF   LAW'S   DELAY 

For  years,  Eleanor  could  not  let  herself  re 
member  the  details  of  that  night.  We  like  to 
persuade  ourselves  that  by  some  miraculous 
chance,  some  trickery  of  fate,  good  may  come  in 
a  vague  somehow  out  of  evil;  contrary  to  the 
proofs  from  the  beginning  of  time  that  good  fruit 
never  yet  grew  from  evil  seed.  The  girl  was  too 
honest  for  such  fetish  faith.  She  could  not  turn 
up  the  whites  of  her  eyes  in  a  pious  resignation 
that  it  had  been  the  will  of  God  evil  should  tri 
umph.  So  she  shut  out  the  details  of  the  horror 
from  mind's  memory  and  set  her  teeth,  knowing 
well  that  when  lewd  horrors  triumph  it  is  not 
because  the  God  of  the  Universe  is  a  fool  but 
because  the  powers  for  right  have  not  fought 
valiant  as  the  powers  for  evil. 

She  remembered  the  Banger  had  tossed  a  re 
volver  to  the  old  frontiersman  and  Matthews  had 
gone  tearing  up  the  slippery  clay  of  the  Mesa 
road  ripping  out  oaths  of  his  unregenerate  days 
that  he  would  have  "the  scoundrels'  scalps  if  he 
had  to  tear  them  off  with  his  own  hands. ' '  Some- 

91 


92   FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

how,  Wayland  had  headed  the  draggled  horses 
round  on  the  narrow  Eim  Eock  trail. 

"Go  down  and  break  the  news  to  his  mother. 
I'll  get  the  body,"  he  had  said ;  and  she  had  driven 
the  buckboard  down  with  her  foot  on  the  wheel 
brake.  Not  a  soul  appeared  around  the  Senator's 
place  as  she  passed  the  white  square  of  fenced 
buildings.  All  the  mosquito  doors  were  hooked. 
Everything  looked  deserted;  branding  irons  ly 
ing  in  disorder  round  the  k'raal.  The  Eiver  had 
swollen  too  turbulent  for  fording  and  she  had 
crossed  the  white  bridge — she  remembered  she 
had  crossed  at  a  gallop  contrary  to  the  little 
notice  tacked  on  the  board  railing.  Then,  the 
horses  steaming  from  rain  had  stopped  in  front 
of  the  Mission  gate  and  Mrs.  Williams  had  come 
out  "wondering  about  Fordie  in  the  storm." 
"With  her  back  to  the  waiting  mother,  Eleanor  had 
spent  an  unconscionable  time  tying  the  ponies, 
trying  to  control  her  own  trembling  lips  and 
threshing  round  for  some  way  to  tell  the  untell- 
able.  She  remembered  the  roil  of  the  raging 
waters,  the  floating  star  blossoms  on  the  muddy 
swirl,  the  light  sifting  in  beaten  rain  dust  through 
the  silver  pine  needles,  the  curve  and  dip  of  the 
joyous  swallows.  Then,  she  had  followed  the 
little  white  haired  lady  into  the  Mission  Parlor. 

Almost  hysterically,  that  saying  of  an  old  pro 
fane  writer  came  to  mind,  ' '  God  tempers  the  wind 
to  the  shorn  lamb;"  and  all  her  inner  being  was 


A  VICTIM  OF  LAW'S  DELAY  93 

shouting  in  rebellion  "Does  He,  Does  He?" 
Then  she  shut  the  door.  She  knew  very  well  how 
she  ought  to  have  broken  the  news  with  the  pious 
platitudes  that  everything  is  for  the  best,  with  the 
whitewashed  lies  that  every  damnable  tragedy  is 
a  blessing  in  disguise,  that  every  devil-dance  of 
fool  circumstance  is  beneficent  design,  that  disease 
is  really  health  in  a  mask  and  sin  a  joke,  a 
misnomer,  that  crime  is  really  a  trump  card  up 
Deity's  sleeve  to  play  down  some  wonderful  trick 
of  good;  but — was  it  the  Indian  strain  in  her 
blood  back  many  generations?  She  could  not 
mouthe  the  hollow  mockery  of  such  sophistries  in 
the  presence  of  Death. 

"Eleanor — what  is  it?  Why  do  your  eyes  look 
so  strange?" 

The  little  woman  clasped  both  the  girl's  hands 
and  gazed  questioningly  up  in  her  face.  At  the 
same  moment,  she  began  to  tremble.  She  tried  to 
ask  and  faltered;  a  tremor  pulsed  in  the  upper 
lip.  Then  the  grand-daughter  of  the  man  of 
the  iron  hand  had  gathered  the  little  white  haired 
lady  in  her  arms  as  if  to  ward  the  blow. 

"The  outlaws  drove  Fordie  over  the  Eim 
Eocks  with  the  herd, ' '  she  said. 

"Is  he  dead?    Is  he  dead?" 

The  little  woman  had  drawn  her  body  up  its 
full  height. 

Eleanor  tried  to  answer.  The  words  would 
not  come  from  her  lips.  She  nodded.  There 


94      FREEBOOTERS  OP  THE  WILDERNESS 

again  she  had  to  shut  the  door  of  memory;  for, 
when  we  break  the  news,  it  isn't  the  news  we 
break ;  it 's  the  news  breaks  us. 

After  what  seemed  an  interminable  quiet, 
Mrs.  Williams  was  asking  through  dry  tearless 
sobs: 

:'What  does  it  all  mean?  Have  we  not  given 
our  whole  lives  to  God!  How  could  this  thing 
happen — to  an  innocent  child?  There  isn't  any 
justice  or  right  in  this  whole  wo  rid. " 

'We  must  not  be  quiescent  any  more,  Mrs. 
Williams.  We  must  fight.  We  have  such  a  habit 
of  letting  things  go,  and  things  let  go — go 
wrong.  It  isn't  God's  fault  at  all:  it's  us— us 
humans :  it's  our  fault.  Every  one  of  us  ought  to 
have  been  ready  to  die  to  prevent  crime;  and 
we've  been  letting  things  go.  We  mustn't  be 
quiescent  any  more.  We  must  fight  wrongs  and 
evils.  And  much  more;"  the  girl  in  tears,  the 
little  woman  fevered,  red-eyed,  gazing  with 
glazed  look  into  dark  spaces,  kneading  her  clasped 
hands  together.  Once  the  door  opened  and  the 
shawled  head  of  the  old  half-breed  woman  poked 
in. 

"Ford?"     Calamity  asked. 

"Go  'way,  Calamity"  whispered  Eleanor. 

She  saw  the  little  woman  rise  slowly. 

"He  is  murdered,"  Mrs.  Williams  said,  "he  is 
murdered  just  as  truly  as  if  Moyese  had  cut  his 
throat  with  his  own  hand."  It  was  not  for 
months  after,  that  Eleanor  recalled  the  look  on 


A  VICTIM  OF  LAW'S  DELAY  95 

Calamity's  face  as  the  Indian  woman  heard  those 
frenzied  words.  Then  Mrs.  Williams  broke  in  un 
controllable  sobbing.  " Leave  me!  Go  out — all 
of  you.  Leave  me  alone!" 

Eleanor  shut  the  door  and  led  the  dazed  Indian 
children  from  the  outer  hall.  In  the  Library,  op 
posite  the  Mission  Parlor,  she  found  old  Calamity 
sitting  on  the  floor  with  the  shawl  over  her  head. 
The  half-breed  woman  sat  peering  through  the 
shawl  as  Eleanor  lighted  the  hanging  lamp.  No 
Indian  will  mention  the  name  of  the  dead.  She 
fastened  her  eyes  on  Eleanor,  snakily,  sinister, 
never  shifting  her  glance. 

1  'What  is  it,  Calamity?" 

"Is  dat  true?  Senator  man  he  keel  heem — 
keel  leetle  boy?"  she  asked  slowly. 

Eleanor  thought  a  moment. 

"Yes,  it  is  entirely  true,"  she  said,  never  heed 
ing  the  import  of  her  words  to  the  superstitious 
mind  of  the  Indian  woman. 

A  little  hiss  of  breath  came  from  the  crouching 
form.  She  rose,  drew  the  shawl  round  her  head 
and  at  the  door,  turned. 

"Dey  take  mine,"  she  said,  "and  now  dey  keel 
heem,  an'  white  man,  he  yappy — yappy — yappy; 
not  do — not  do  any  t'ing!  He  send  for  Mount' 
P'lice,  mabee  no  do  anyt'ing  unless  Indian  man 
.  .  .  he  keel."  The  little  hiss  of  breath  again 
and  a  cunning  mad  look  in  the  eyes. 

"Go  'way  Calamity!  Go  home  to  our  ranch 
house ! ' ' 


96      FREEBOOTERS  OP  THE  WILDERNESS 

By  and  by,  came  Wayland.  She  knew  why  he  had 
come  after  dark,  carrying  the  slender  body 
against  his  shoulder.  A  white  handkerchief  had 
been  thrown  over  the  face;  and  she  saw  that  he 
held  the  arms  tightly  to  hide  the  fact  that  both 
had  been  broken  in  the  fall.  The  rains  had  mat 
ted  the  curly  hair  and  brought  a  strange  rose 
glow  to  the  cheeks.  There  again — Eleanor  had 
to  shut  the  doors  of  memory;  for  they  had  carried 
him  in  together.  The  wind  was  not  tempered  to 
the  shorn  lamb ;  and  it  is  the  living,  not  the  dead, 
who  beat  against  the  Portals  of  Death. 

They  kept  watch  together,  she  and  Wayland,  in 
the  Library  across  from  the  closed  door  of  the 
Mission  Parlor,  black-eyed  Indian  urchins  peep 
ing  furtively  from  the  head  of  the  stairs  till 
bells  rang  lights  out.  Then  silence  fell,  stabbed 
by  the  creak  of  floor,  the  swing  of  door,  the  click 
and  rustle  of  the  cotton  wood  leaves  outside. 

There  was  a  slight  patter  of  rain-drip  from  the 
eaves  somewhere.  A  gate  swung  to  the  wind; 
and,  from  across  the  hall,  they  could  hear  the 
driven  footsteps  pacing  up  and  down  the  parlor. 
Then,  the  drip,— drip,— was  broken  by  longer 
blanks,  and  stopped.  The  cotton  wood  leaves 
ceased  to  rustle  and  flutter.  Only  the  twang  of 
the  night  hawk's  wing  hummed  through  the  still 
ness  ;  and  the  distracted  tread  no  longer  paced  the 
Mission  Parlor.  When  Eleanor  came  back  from 
across  the  hall,  she  shut  the  Library  door  softly. 
6 'She  is  praying/ '  she  said. 


A  VICTIM  OF  LAW'S  DELAY  97 

Wayland  had  been  extemporizing  a  morris 
chair  into  a  lounge  with  his  Service  coat  for  a 
pillow.  He  threw  a  navajo  rug  across.  Then, 
he  faced  her.  The  look  of  masterdom  had  both 
hardened  and  softened.  She  did  not  know  that 
the  hunger-light  of  her  own  face  hardened  that 
hardness;  and  she  gazed  through  the  darkened 
window  to  hide  her  tears.  He  stood  beside  her 
with  his  arms  folded.  A  convulsive  shudder 
shook  her  frame.  Wayland  tightened  his  folded 
arms.  Sympathy  is  so  easy.  The  sense  of  her 
nearness,  of  her  trust,  of  the  warm  living  fire  of 
her  love  was  pushing  him  not  over  the  precipice 
but  into  the  battle,  out  beyond  the  firing  line. 
What  did  one  man  matter  in  this  big  fight 
anyway?  They  heard  the  sibilant  hush  of  the 
River  flood-tide;  and  the  warm  June  dark  enve 
loped  them  as  in  a  caress.  They  could  see  the 
sheet  lightning  glimmer  on  the  bank  of  cumulous 
clouds  behind  the  Holy  Cross.  The  humming 
night-hawk,  up  in  the  indigo  of  mid-heaven,  ut 
tered  a  lonely,  far,  fading  call,  as  of  life  in  flight ; 
and  a  rustle  of  wind,  faint  as  the  brushing  of 
moth  wings,  passed  whispering  into  silence. 

"You  don't  really  think  death  is  the  end  of  all, 
do  you?"  she  asked. 

Wayland  could  not  answer.  If  she  had  looked, 
she  would  have  seen  his  face  white  and  his  eyes 
shining  with  a  strange  new  light.  He  drew  back 
a  little  in  the  dark  of  the  window  casement,  with 
Ms  hand  on  the  sill.  It  touched  hers  and  closed 


98  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

over  it.  Then,  somewhere  from  the  dark  came  a 
night-sound  heard  only  in  June,  the  broken 
dream-trill  of  a  bird  in  its  sleep.  When  she 
spoke,  her  voice  was  low,  keyed  as  the  dream-voice 
from  the  dark. 

4  *  Where  did  the  spray  of  flowers  you  gave  me 
come  from  ? ' ' 

i 'Sprig  I'd  stuck  in  my  hat  band." 

" Was  that  all?  Didn't  you  mean  to  tell  me 
more!" 

"It's  a  pearl  everlasting  blossom,"  answered 
Wayland. 

She  waited.  He  heard  the  slow  ticking  of  his 
own  watch. 

"I  was  dreaming  of  your  face,"  he  blundered 
out,  "and  when  I  wakened,  the  thing  had  blown 
down  on — the  hammock."  It  was  a  clumsy  sub 
terfuge;  and  he  knew  that  her  thought  meeting 
his  half-way  divined  his  dream. 

The  wind  passed  whispering  into  silence.  He 
felt  the  quiver  of  the  pine  needles  outside,  trem 
bling  to  the  touch  of  wind  and  night.  The  sense 
of  her  nearness,  of  her  trust,  of  the  warm  living 
fire  of  her  love  swept  over  him  unstemmed;  and, 
when  she  turned  and  looked  in  his  eyes,  he  caught 
her  in  his  arms  and  held  her  there  with  a  fierce 
tenderness,  her  face  thrown  back,  the  veins  of  her 
throat  pulsing  to  the  touch  of  wind  and  night, 
her  lips  parted,  her  lashes  hiding  her  eyes. 

"Tell  me  that  you  are  mine,"  he  whispered. 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.     Then  she 


A  VICTIM  OF  LAWS  DELAY  99 

lifted  her  eyes.  He  drank  their  light  as  a  thirsty 
man  might  drink  waters  of  life.  Neither  spoke. 
The  rustling  wind  passed  whispering.  The  June 
dark  enveloped  them  in  the  warm  caress  of  the 
night.  By  the  dim  flare  of  the  library  lamp  he 
saw  her  lips  trembling. 

*  'Tell  me, ' '  he  commanded. 

1  '  Do  I  need  to  tell  you!' ' 

"Yes,  yes!  I  must  have  a  seal  of  memory  for 
the  dark  future,"  and  his  tongue  poured  forth 
such  utterances  as  he  had  not  dreamed  men  could 
use  but  in  prayer.  "I  must  know  from  your 
own  lips." 

He  felt  the  tremor,  felt  the  two  hands  rise  to 
frame  his  face,  felt  the  catch  and  take  of  breath, 
heard  the  broken  notes  of  gold. 

"Then,  take  it,"  she  said. 

He  bent  over  her  lips  in  an  exquisite  torture 
that  could  neither  give  nor  take  enough  till  she 
struggled  to  free  herself,  when  he  crushed  her  the 
closer,  and  kissed  the  closed  eyes  and  the  fore 
head  and  the  hair  and  the  pulsing  throat.  Then 
he  opened  his  arms. 

She  sank  on  the  morris  chair  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands.  They  neither  of  them  spoke  nor 
heard  very  much  but  the  pounding  of  their  own 
hearts.  Wayland  gazed  out  in  the  dark  at  the 
shiny  flood-tides  of  the  river.  She  had  not  meant 
— she  had  meant  always  to  be  free;  she  had  not 
meant  to  mingle  her  life  currents  in  the  destiny 
of  others. 


100  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

The  door  opened  suddenly.  It  was  old  Cala 
mity,  red-shawled  and  stooping. 

"Missa  Vellam  say  not  for  vait  no  longer, 
Mademoiselle!  She  aw'  right.  She  say  t'ank 
you  now  for  to  go  home ! ' ' 

Eleanor  rose  with  a  shuddering  sigh 

4 'Come  then,  Calamity, "  she  said. 

Wayland  walked  with  her  to  the  ranch  house, 
the  old  half-breed  woman  pattering  behind.  The 
gray  dawn-light  lay  on  the  river  mistily.  At  the 
gate,  she  turned. 

"Has  Mr.  Matthews  come  back  yet,  Calamity?" 

Calamity  gave  a  vigorous  shake  of  her  head. 

1  'I  am  going  up  to  the  Eim  Eocks  at  once  to 
see  what's  become  of  him.  Go  on  in,  Calamity; 
I  want  to  speak  to  Miss  MacDonald!  Forgive 
me,"  he  pleaded.  "I  had  no  right.  I  have  no 
right  to  anything  till  I  have  cleaned  up  this  dam 
nable  hell-work.  I  must  not  leave  duty  till  I 
have  fought  this  thing  out;  and  I  must  not  drag 
you  in;  but  I  wanted — "  he  paused;  "I  couldn't 
help  it." 

She  trembled,  but  she  took  refuge  in  neither 
the  subterfuge  nor  the  pretence  of  the  Eastern 
woman. 

"It  was  yours,"  she  said. 

Wayland 's  eyes  flashed  their  gratitude.  "It's 
so  God-blessed  beautiful,  Eleanor;  it's  so  wonder 
fully  beautiful  I  mustn't  spoil  it  with  my  man 
hands!  I  couldn't  believe  it  true  without  the 
memory  you've  given  me;  but  you  must  keep  me 


A  VICTIM  OF  LAW'S  DELAY  101 

in  line !  Now  that  I  have  that  memory  in  my  heart 
I'll  drink  it,  and  hike  for  the  firing  line!  My 
place  isn't  here;  you  must  never  let  me  break 
my  resolution  again." 

"I  never  will,"  interrupted  Eleanor. 

" We've  got  to  fight  this  thing  to  the  last  ditch! 
If  the  innocent  may  be  done  to  death  by  our  law 
makers ;  if  murder  can  be  planned  and  carried  out 
unpunished;  there's  an  end  to  our  democracy! 
Last  year  it  was  a  little  school  teacher  strangled 
down  in  the  Desert ;  nobody  punished,  because  that 
would  have  interfered  with  a  voting  gang  on 
election  day.  This  year,  it's  Fordie.  //  these 
crimes  had  been  committed  under  a  monarchy, 
the  people  would  have  tanned  the  hide  of  the 
'king  into  boot  leather!  Last  year  it  was  the  little 
school  teacher.  This  year  it's  Fordie.  To 
morrow,  it  may  be  any  man,  woman  or  child  in 
the  Valley.  If  they'd  keep  their  crimes  among 
their  own  kind,  there  would  be  some  excuse  for 
this  let-alone  policy ;  but  when  freedom  to  do  what 
a  man  likes  means  freedom  to  push  crime  into 
your  life  and  mine,  freedom  to  deprive  others  of 
freedom,  it's  time  the  Nation  jumped  on  some 
body  !  We  Ve  got  to  fight  this  damnable  thing  to 
the  last  ditch,  Eleanor!" 

"Good  luck  and  God  speed,"  she  said  with 
out  looking  up ;  and  she  turned  without  once  look 
ing  back,  and  walked  up  the  slab  steps  of  the 
rustic  entrance  to  the  ranch  house. 


CHAPTER  IX 

EIGHT   INTO    MIGHT 

Don't  wait  for  Mr.  Matthews  and  me.  We  are 
setting  out  on  the  Long  Trail.  It  is  the  Long 
Trail  this  Nation  will  have  to  travel  before  De 
mocracy  arrives.  It  is  the  Trail  of  the  Man  be 
hind  the  Thing;  and  we'll  not  quit  till  we  get  him. 
You  remember  what  our  old  visitor  said  about 
"splitting  the  air  to  get  somewhere."  We  are 
going  to  quit  "sawing  the  air"  and  "split  it  to 
get  somewhere."  We  are  going  to  set  out  after 
the  Man;  the  little  codger  first,  as  a  foot  print 
on  the  Long  Trail  to  the  lair  of  the  Man  Higher 
Up. 

You  cannot  stab  a  lot  of  things  to  life  as  you 
did  last  night  and  the  night  before,  and  then  ex 
pect  them  to  lie  quiet  and  be  the  same.  You  have 
sent  me  forth  on  the  Long  Trail,  Eleanor;  and  I 
shall  hunt  the  better  because  you  have  stabbed 
me  alive  and  will  never  let  me  go  to  sleep  again. 
I  thank  you;  and  yet,  I  can't  thank  you,  mine 
Alder  Liefest  —  look  up  and  see  what  that  means 
in  old  Saxon  —  Yours  in  Life  and  Death  and 
Always  and  Out  Beyond 


I  have  ordered  a  wreath  from  Smelter  City 
for  Fordie.  Find  it  hard  to  stop  writing  and  go 
from  you;  but  the  darned  old  Mountain  doesn't 
look  the  same;  it's  all  draped  out  in  such  "dam- 
phool  'appiness"  that  I  am  glad  in  the  shadow  of 
Death.  DICK.  (2nd) 

103 


EIGHT  INTO  MIGHT  103 

Don't  forget  every  day  dawn  and  sunset,  I 
come  to  renew  the  Seal.  Ever  study  Algebra  in 
college  ?  Then  look  up  what  this  means. 

DICK,  (nth) 

And  because  she  had  graduated  from  girl  to 
woman  between  sunset  and  daydawn  of  that  Death 
Watch,  she  kissed  the  last  signature,  right  in  the 
midst  of  the  German  cook's  dishes,  set  all  hig- 
geldy-piggeldy  on  the  oilcloth  top  instead  of  the 
linen  cover,  owing  to  the  distraction  of  the  night's 
tragedy.  It  was  his  first  love  letter ;  and  because 
it  was  his  first,  he  did  not  know  it  was  a  love 
letter.  He  had  written  it  on  the  pages  of  a  field 
note  book.  On  the  reverse  side,  were  figures  of 
triangulations  and  scaled  timbers,  which  Eleanor 
fingered  lovingly  because  the  dumb  signs  seemed 
to  connect  her  life  with  his  before — before  what? 
Ask  those  who  know! 

The  note  was  lying  at  her  breakfast  place  when 
she  came  out  from  a  sleepless  night,  a  night  that 
seemed  to  pass  swinging  between  the  gates  of 
Life  and  the  gates  of  Death,  with  phantoms  on 
the  trail  between,  of  Love  so  terrible  its  glory 
blinded  her,  of  Crime  so  dark  its  shadow  obscured 
her  faith  in  God.  For  hours,  she  had  lain  quiver 
ing  to  the  consciousness  of  that  moment  when 
Life  leaped  up  to  meet  and  blend  with  Life  in 
Love.  For  hours,  she  had  lain  quivering  to  the 
consciousness  of  Crime  stalking  satyr-faced  amid 
the  shadows  of  Life,  Greed  and  Murder  and  Lust, 
hiding  beneath  suave  words,  behind  convention- 


104  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

ality,  draped  in  all  the  broad  phalacteries  of  law, 
ready  to  leap  fanged  at  the  throat  of  Innocence 
in  a  Land  of  Let-Alone;  and  she  emerged  from 
the  conflict  of  these  two  forces  no  longer  what 
would  be  called  a  Christian,  no  longer  a  Quiescent, 
no  longer  a  Let  Alone.  She  emerged  knowing 
that  Democracy  must  become  a  joke,  and  Chris 
tianity  the  laughing  stock  of  the  ages,  unless 
Eight  could  be  made  over  into  Might. 

Then,  she  found  the  Banger's  note  at  her  late 
breakfast — it  was  a  shockingly  late  breakfast,  it 
was  after  the  noon  hour — the  note  saying  that 
he  had  set  out  on  the  Long  Trail  that  the  Nation 
must  travel,  the  trail  of  the  Man  behind  the 
Thing,  the  Man  Higher  Up.  It  was  as  it  had 
been  from  the  first  with  him,  the  meeting  half 
way  of  their  thoughts  from  different  beginnings; 
and  she  kissed  the  signature  with  a  gesture  that 
played  havoc  with  the  breakfast  dishes  and  sent 
Calamity  snivelling  and  muttering  from  the 
kitchen.  The  ignorant  half-breed's  knowledge 
of  life  among  the  miners  of  the  Black  Hills  and 
the  shingle  men  of  the  Bitter  Boot  saw-mills  didn  't 
admit  explanations  of  love  that  kissed  signatures 
and  impelled  tears. 

And  yet  while  revolution  convulsed  two  souls 
you  could  have  gone  from  end  to  end  of  the 
Valley  that  week  or  to  every  cabin  on  the  Home 
stead  Claim  of  the  Bidge  and  not  heard  a  liv 
ing  soul  speak  one  word  of  the  tragedy  on  the 


BIGHT  INTO  MIGHT  105 

Eim  Eocks.  Were  they  moral  cowards'?  I  don't 
think  so.  Wasn't  it  more  of  that  spirit  of  Let 
Alone?  If  you  had  mentioned  the  terrible  epi 
sode  to  a  casual  settler,  he  would  have  given  you 
a  blank  look  and  remarked  "that  he  hadn't 
heard." 

The  story  set  down  here,  I  could  not  myself 
have  learned  if  a  chance  ramble  over  the  foot 
hills  of  the  Kim  Kocks  had  not  led  one  day  to 
a  solitary  little  grave  surrounded  by  a  picket 
fence  marked  by  the  figure  of  a  kneeling  child 
carved  in  rough  sand  stone.  As  the  guest  of 
the  Mission  School,  I  made  the  mistake  of  ask 
ing  the  mother,  herself,  whose  grave  that  was. 
Women,  who  are  neither  politicians  nor  politic, 
have  a  plain  way  of  uttering  harsh  facts.  She 
did  not  speak  about  the  author  of  her  boy's  death 
in  soft  words,  that  little  white  haired  mother. 
She  used  a  term  oftener  heard  in  the  purlieus 
of  criminal  courts.  "To  think,"  she  exclaimed 
bitterly,  "to  think  that  Fordie,  descended  from 
generations  of  Williams  who  have  pioneered  and 
fought  for  and  built  up  this  country  since  ever 
the  first  Williams  landed  in  Boston  in  1666,  was 
done  to  death  by  this  murderer,  this  truckster, 
this  political  trickster,  this  outcast  from  the 
European  gutters,  this  huckster  of  lazaretto 
morals  and  bawd  houses,  who  is  overturning  our 
Nation  with  his  oiled  villainies  and  peddler  ways ! 
No,  we  have  never  taken  Government  aid  and  we 
never  shall !  I  like  to  know  that  my  Indian  girls 


106  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

are  safe."  What  more  she  added,  I  do  not  re 
late  ;  for  an  angered  mother  has  a  way  of  uttering 
terrible  truths. 

To-day,  if  you  visit  that  grave  on  the  crest 
of  the  saddle  back,  you  will  find  it  flanked  by 
two  others,  a  man's  on  one  side  with  the  figure 
of  a  trader  carved  in  sandstone  by  the  Indians; 
on  the  other,  old  Calamity's  with  a  plain  granite 
slab;  though  I  have  heard  strict  people  say  her 
body  ought  not  to  have  been  laid  there  because  of 
the  vagrant  character  of  her  early  life. 

Indian  boys  from  the  school  had  shaped  the 
coffin  and  carved  the  figure  for  the  stone.  A 
girlish  teacher  read  the  Church  Services  for  the 
dead;  and  the  children's  voices  rose  a  thin 
tremulous  treble  in  the  funeral  hymn  around  the 
grave.  Wild  flowers  covered  the  casket,  pearl 
everlasting  and  the  wind  flower  and  the  white 
Canada  violet  and  the  painter's  brush  vari 
colored  as  a  flame;  and  a  wreath  had  come  up 
from  Smelter  City. 

Sights  and  sounds  that  have  been  a  setting  for 
sorrow,  haunt  the  mind.  After  that  day,  Eleanor 
could  never  hear  the  hammer  of  the  wood 
pecker,  the  lone  cry  of  circling  hawk,  the  whis 
tling  of  the  solitary  mountain  marmot,  without 
hearing  also  the  thin  treble  of  the  Indian  pupils 
breaking  and  silencing  on  that  funeral  hymn  till 
only  the  mother's  voice  sang  clarion  to  the  end. 
She  heard  the  low  melting  trill  of  the  blue  bird 


EIGHT  INTO  MIGHT  107 

and  the  wrangling  rasp  of  the  jay — true  and 
counterfeit,  peace  and  discord — had  God  put 
right  and  wrong  in  the  world  for  the  friction  of 
the  conflict  between,  to  develop  souls?  Had  one 
been  set  over  against  the  other,  like  light  and 
shadow,  to  train  the  spiritual  eye  to  know? 

Then,  the  Indian  boys  began  to  lower  the 
casket.  One  young  pall  bearer  faltered  and 
slipped  his  hold;  it  was  the  little  white  haired 
mother's  hand  steadied  the  rope  that  lowered,  and 
slowly  lowered,  out  of  sight  for  ever.  Then  one 
of  the  girl  teachers  dropped  in  a  great  bunch  of 
mountain  laurel.  Eleanor  succeeded  in  leading 
the  mother  away. 

Were  the  amethyst  portals  still  ajar  to  the  in 
finite  life;  or  did  the  shadow  of  the  Cross,  of 
the  time-old  ever-recurring  crucifixion,  darken 
the  vista  of  a  glad  future?  The  Indian  children 
filed  in  through  the  gate  of  the  Mission  school. 
At  the  gate,  the  mother  looked  up  the  Saddle 
back.  She  had  no  time  for  the  pampered  luxury 
of  self  conscious  grief.  She  had  directed  the 
making  of  the  coffin  and  the  carving  of  the  sand 
stone  and  had  led  the  funeral  hymn  to  the  end; 
but  now  she  looked  back.  Ashes  of  roses  across 
the  sky,  creeping  phantom  shadows,  and  in  her 
heart,  the  sombre  presence  of  the  after-desola 
tion  which  neither  faith  nor  fortitude  casts  out. 
She  would  go  to  sleep  dull  with  the  woe  of  it 
and  dream  depressed  of  its  loneliness,  to  waken 


108     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

heavy  with  the  memory.  Then,  by  and  by,  would 
come  the  peace  that  the  dead  send,  which  is  not 
forgetf ulness.  But  now  she  looked  back,  looked 
back  with  the  wrench  that  was  the  tearing  of 
flesh  and  spirit  asunder.  Above  the  new-made 
grave,  across  those  topaz  sunset  gates,  stood  the 
figure  of  the  native  woman,  shawl  thrown  from 
her  head  reaving  the  long  black  hair;  and  from 
the  hill  crest  came  such  a  long  low  cry  as  might 
have  been  a  ghost  echo  of  all  the  age-old  world 
sorrows.  Eleanor  felt  the  quick  twitch  on  her 
arm.  Without  a  word,  without  a  tear,  the  boy's 
mother  had  fainted. 

"We  ought  to  have  looked  out  for  that,"  ex 
plained  one  of  the  girl  teachers  from  the  school. 
"We  ought  to  have  left  Calamity  home.  She  has 
always  done  that  since  they  took  her  child  away.'* 

"Had  she  a  child!"  asked  Eleanor. 

"Yes;  and  they  took  it  away  when  she  went 
insane." 

Eleanor  slept  with  the  leaves  of  the  field-book 
under  her  pillow  that  night;  but  she  slept  the 
heavy  dreamless  sleep  of  baffled  hope. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   HANDY   MAN    GETS   BUSY 

If  you  think~ther  Senator  had  had  anything  to 
do  with  the  terrible  events  of  the  Rim  Eocks, 
you  are  jumping  to  conclusions  and  must  surely 
have  failed  to  follow  the  activities  of  Mr.  Bat 
Brydges  the  morning  after  the  tragedy. 

The  first  newspaper  office  that  the  handy  man 
visited  was  owned  by  the  Senator.  That  was 
easy.  Bat  went  into  the  reporters'  long  room 
where  the  typewriters  usually  clicked.  This 
morning  they  were  silent.  The  men  were  out  on 
their  assignments.  The  news  editor  was  taking 
a  message  over  the  telephone.  Bat  sat  down 
on  the  table  and  waited.  The  news  editor  was 
thin-faced  and  nervous  and  alert  and  immacu 
lately  groomed.  Bat  was  round-faced  and 
sleepy-eyed — tortoise-shell  eyes — and  all  that 
prevented  his  suit  from  looking  positively  slov 
enly  was  that  his  own  ample  avoirdupois  filled 
every  wrinkle. 

The  news  editor  adjusted  his  glasses  to  his 
nose  and  answered,  "Yes,  Yes,"  impatiently  over 
the  telephone. 

109 


110     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

"It's  a  parson,"  lie  explained  with  an  irritable 
snap  of  his  black  eyes  towards  Bat. 

Bat  smiled  sleepily.  "Thinks  you're  hunger 
ing  and  thirsting  for  news  of  his  flock,  does  he?" 

"No,  blank  it,"  snapped  the  news  editor. 
"It's  another  kind  of  flock  that's  worrying  us 
this  morning." 

Bat's  smile  faded  to  a  sly  haze  in  his  sleepy 
(eyes. 

"What  has  the  old  boy  got  to  say?" 

"How  do  you  know  he  is  old?"  snapped  the 
news  editor. 

Bat  didn't  volunteer  on  that  point. 

"Ask  him  what  his  name  is,"  suggested 
Brydges. 

"What  did  you  say  the  name  was?  Matthews 
—Matthews— is  that  it?  Wait,  please!"  The 
news-editor  put  his  hand  over  the  mouth  piece 
of  the  telephone. 

"Know  anything  about  him,  Bat?" 

"I  should  say  I  do!  Choke  it  off!  He's  stay 
ing  with  Missionary  Williams  at  the  Indian 
School,  and  you  know  about  how  much  love  is 
lost  between  Williams  and  Moyese." 

"But  we  can't  possibly  suppress  this,  Bat.  It 
will  be  all  over  the  country." 

"Better  see  whose  ox  is  gored,"  advised 
Brydges. 

"But  we've  got  to  get  this,  Brydges!  The 
stage  driver's  told  one  of  my  men,  already! 


THE  HANDY  MAN  GETS  BUSY  111 

Every  bar-room  buffer  in  the  country  side  will 
know  it  by  night. " 

"Then  you  had  better  get  it  straight, "  advised 
Bat. 

The  news-man  looked  in  space  through  eyes 
narrowed  to  an  arrow.  Bat  watched  sleepily. 

"If  we  choke  this  old  chap's  account  off,  can 
you  give  one  to  us  ? ' ' 

"Got  it  in  my  pocket!  I've  just  come  in  on 
the  stage !" 

"I  thought  you  came  down  in  a  motor  with 
the  Senator?  Didn't  he  take  the  morning  limited 
for  Washington  f" 

"Well,  the  darn  thing  broke  down  so  often  it 
was  bad  as  the  stage.  Anyway,  I've  got  the 
story  for  you — " 

"Senator  0.  K.  it?"  The  news-man  hung  the 
telephone  receiver  up,  still  keeping  his  hand  over 
the  mouth  piece. 

"Lord,  no!"  Bat  slid  off  the  table,  tore  the 
sheets  from  his  note  book  and  handed  the  story 
of  the  Eim  Eocks  across  to  the  editor. 

"What  do  you  take  the  Senator  for?  He 
knows  nothing  about  it;  but  it's  in  his  constitu 
ency,  and  I  guess  his  own  paper  should  see  that 
the  account  which  goes  in  is  straight." 

The  news-editor  hoisted  his  foot  to  the  seat 
of  a  chair  and  stood  racing  his  eyes  through 
sheet  after  sheet  of  Brydges's  copy.  Bat  lighted 
a  cigar,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  pivoted 


112  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

on  his  heels.  There  was  the  squeak,*  squeak, 
squeak  of  a  child's  new  boots  coming  up  the  first 
flight  of  stairs;  and  a  squeak,  squeak,  squeak  up 
the  second  flight  of  stairs;  and  a  little  girl,  not 
twelve  years  old,  resplendent  in  such  tawdry 
finery  as  might  have  stepped  out  of  an  East  End 
London  pawn  shop,  presented  herself  framed  in 
the  doorway  of  the  reporter's  room.  She  plainly 
belonged  to  the  immigrant  section  of  Smelter 
City.  The  news-editor  never  took  his  eyes  from 
Bat's  copy.  They  were  eyes  made  for  drilling 
holes  into  the  motives  behind  facts.  Bat  emit 
ted  a  whistle  that  was  a  laugh. 

" Hullo,"  he  said.  "I  knew  they  were  coming 
on  younger  every  year;  but  I  didn't  know  we 
had  gone  into  the  kindergarten  business  yet. 
You  don't  want  a  job?  Now  don't  tell  me  you 
want  a  job!" 

The  little  person  lifted  a  pair  of  very  sober 
eyes  beneath  the  brim  of  some  faded  plush  head 
gear. 

"Is  thus  th'  rha-porther's  room?" 

"Sure!  you  bet!"    Bat  wheeled  on  both  heels. 

The  little  person  looked  at  him  very  steadily 
and  solemnly. 

"A'  wannt,"  she  said  in  that  mongrel  dia 
lect  of  German-American  and  Cockney-English, 
"A  wawnt  an  iteem." 

"Sure,"  says  Bat,  "nothing  easier." 

"Wull  thur  be  eny  chaarge?" 


THE  HANDY  MAN  GETS  BUSY  113 

"Not  for  ladies, "  says  Bat,  saluting,  hand  to 
hat,  and  grinning  more  sleepily  than  ever. 

"Then,  A  wull  guve  it  t'  y':  wull  y'  write  it, 
sor?" 

"Sure!"  Bat  squared  himself  to  one  of  the 
reporters'  high  desks. 

"Mestriss  Leez-y  0  'Fannigan, ' '  dictated  the 
little  publicity  agent. 

"Miss  0 'Funny  Girl/'  with  a  look  to  his  fat 
cheeks  as  of  a  bag  blown  full  of  air. 

"No  Sor,  O'Fan-ni-gan— " 

"Perhaps,"  said  Bat,  "You'd  like  to  know 
we're  in  the  same  boat,  except  that  you're  seek 
ing  exactly  what  I'm  trying  to  avoid,  Miss 
O'Finnigan?" 

"Wull  dance  t'  night — "  continued  the  little 
publicity  seeker. 

"Will  she  dance  in  her  copper-toe  boots?" 
asks  Bat. 

"Wull  dance  at  the  H i-o-f  lodge  meetin' 

at—" 

"That'll  do,  get  her  out  of  this,"  ordered  the 
news-man.  "It  grows  worse  every  day.  Every 
damphool  thinks  the  world  is  aching  for  an  in 
terview  with  himself,  from  the  mining  fakirs  to 
the  Shanty  Town  brats:  it's  seeped  down  to  the 
kids.  You  go  home,  kid,  and  tell  your  mother 
to  spank  you  special  extra — " 

They  heard  the  fat  little  legs  stumping  down 
the  stairs.  "That  kid  belongs  to  Shanty  Town. 


114  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

She  dances  for  the  bar  room  buffers  now;  she'll 
dance  later,  like  you  and  me,  Bat,  for  bigger 
bluffers.  Freedom  of  the  press!  Damn  it,  I'm 
sick  of  the  bunco  game,  Bat — " 

"Draw  it  easy,'7  drawled  Bat.  "If  you're 
sick  of  it,  it's  dead  easy  to  get  out.  I  guess  the 
kid  is  doing  the  same  thing  as  you  and  me: 
'Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread.'  How's  the 
story?  Will  you  give  it  a  flare  head?" 

"Will  there  be  any  charge?"  ironically  re 
peated  the  news-man. 

"Not  for  Moyese,"  smiled  the  handy  man 
sleepily,  "and  say,  if  I  were  you,  I'd  do  one  of 
two  things,  get  rid  of  my  conscience  or  get  a  tonic 
for  my  nerves." 

The  telephone  rang.  The  news-man  ran  to  the 
receiver  and  a  moment  later  slammed  it  back  on 
the  hook. 

"Old  frump,  giving  namby  pamby  talks  on 
woman's  influence  in  politics  without  votes." 
The  news  editor  spat  aimlessly. 

Bat  tapped  the  story  of  the  Eim  Eocks  with 
his  pencil.  "Well,"  he  asked. 

"We'll  give  this  flare." 

The  news  man  put  heavy  underscores  in  blue 
beneath  the  words  TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLAES 
EEWAED,  BY  THE  VALLEY  CATTLE  AS 
SOCIATION  FOE  PEOOF  OF  THE  PERPE- 
TEATOES  OF  LAST  NIGHT'S  VILE  CRIME. 

"We'll  put  this  in  red!    God!    The  Senator  is 


THE  HANDY  MAN  GETS  BUSY  115 

an  artist!  I  like  having  to  lick  the  hand  that 
leashes  me." 

"And  feeds  you,  eh?"  added  Bat. 

Beneath  the  flare  heading  followed  a  statement 
of  facts  (more  or  less)  to  the  effect  that  in  an 
altercation  between  the  drovers  of  some  outside 
cattlemen  and  the  herders  belonging  to  the  Mac- 
Donald  ranch,  the  sheep  herd  had  been  hustled — 
("I  like  your  alliterations,  Bat,  it  gives  flavor  of 
quality,"  commented  the  news-man  with  a  snap 
of  his  black  eyes,)  too  close  to  the  edge  of  the 
Eim  Kocks  with  the  unintended  and  tragical  re 
sult  that  several  hundred  sheep  had  been  shoved 
over  the  battlements.  ("What  I  like  specially 
is  what  you  don't  give,"  commented  the  news 
man.) 

There  was  not  a  word  about  broken  backs  and 
slashed  lambs  and  disemboweled  ewes;  nor  of 
what  had  been  found  on  the  Upper  Mesas.  As 
a  sort  of  addendum  it  was  stated  that  a  boy  be 
longing  to  the  Mission  school  had  lost  his  life  in 
the  melee. 

"Anyway,  we're  in  style!  "Way  to  tell  a  thing 
now  adays  is  to  turn  all  around  it,  and  not  tell 
anything  at  all.  Auto  suggestion,  eh,  Bat?" 

Bat's  fat  cheeks  blew  up  in  the  explosion  of  a 
bursting  paper  bag.  "You  bet  it's  auto  all  right. 
If  you'd  heard  the  old  man  talking  all  the  way 
down  on  the  iniquity  of  the  thing:  he  kept  it 
going  harder  than  the  buzz  wagon." 


116  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

1 1  Better  inform  a  breathlessly  eager  public 
that  he's  gone  to  Washington ?" 

i ' Here,  I've  got  that,  too!  He  dictated  that 
straight,  'for  the  express  purpose  of  taking  up 
the  whole  question  of  eliminating  the  grazing 
areas  from  the  National  Forests  when  it  will  be 
possible  for  the  State  authorities  to  protect  the 
live  stock  interests.'  ;  Bat  handed  across  the 
second  item. 

"What  in  thunder  have  the  National  Forests 
to  do  with  the  Eim  Eock  massacre?"  The  news 
man  looked  up  through  his  glasses. 

"And  who  in  thunder  is  going  to  ask  that?" 

Bat  tapped  the  last  item  sharply  with  his 
pencil.  "They'll  read  that  and  they'll  read  the 
other,  and  I'll  bet  dollars  to  doughnuts  nine  men 
out  of  ten  will  begin  jawing  and  spouting  and 
arguing  that  if  there  were  no  National  Forests, 
there  would  be  no  Eange  Wars.  If  they  draw  a 
false  impression,  that's  the  public's  look  out. 
If  we  weren't  dealing  with  damphools,  we 
couldn't  fool  'em." 

"But  it  didn't  happen  on  the  National 
Forests." 

"But  it's  only  the  tenth  man  who  will  stop 
to  think  that  out.  You  put  in  one  of  those  big 
middle  page  cartoons — National  Forests  with  the 
Federal  sign  board,  KEEP  OFF,  the  sheep  be 
ing  massacred  inside  the  sign  board  and  the 
State  sheriff  unable  to  go  in  and  stop  it— =" 


THE  HANDY  MAN  GETS  BUSY  117 

"But  you  didn't  say  massacred!  You  said 
they  accidently  went  over  the  edge." 

"But  it's  only  the  tenth  man  will  stop  to  think 
that.  You  run  the  cartoon,  see!"  said  Bat,  and, 
though  he  asked  it  as  a  question,  it  sounded  final. 

The  news-man  went  tearing  back  to  the  front 
editorial  rooms.  Bat  went  whistling  down  stairs, 
two  steps  at  a  bounce.  At  the  half-way  land 
ing,  he  paused. 

"Say,"  he  yelled  up,  "you  can  use  the  same 
old  cartoon;  'Keep  Off  the  Grass,'  you  know." 

"Eh! — right,"  crossly  from  the  front  room. 

"And  say?" 

The  news-man  came  out  and  leaned  over  the 
upper  railing. 

"Don't  forget  to  take  that  tonic  for  your 
nerves." 

The  news-man  told  Bat  to  go  any  where  he 
pleased;  but  it  was  all  in  the  day's  work  with 
Mr.  Bat  Brydges.  He  didn't  go.  The  handy 
man  went  straight  across  to  the  paper  in  op 
position.  The  news-man  went  back  to  the  front 
room  and  stood  thinking.  He  didn't  curse  Bat 
nor  emit  fumes  of  the  sulphurous  place  to  which 
he  had  invited  Brydges.  He  was  contemplating 
what  he  called  his  "kids";  and  he  was  figuring 
the  next  payment  due  on  the  Smelter  City  lots  in 
which  he  had  been  speculating.  Evidently,  these 
were  the  news-man's  tonic;  for  he  at  once  did 
what  he  described  as  "bucking  it"  and  called 


118  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

down  the  speaking  tube  for  the  press  man  to 
put  on  the  old  cartoon. 

The  opposition  paper  required  more  finesse 
on  the  part  of  the  handy  man.  Bat  strolled  as  if 
it  were  a  matter  of  habit  into  the  telegraph 
editor's  room,  where  he  lolled  back  in  one  of  the 
two  empty  chairs.  It  was  still  early  and  the 
wires  were  silent.  Bat  laid  one  cigar  at  the 
editor's  place  and  took  a  fresh  one  for  himself. 

"Hullo,  Bat,"  bubbled  the  telegraph  man, 
dashing  from  the  composing  room  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  "We've  just  been  having  a  yell  of  an 
argument  about  the  elements  of  success."  He 
seated  himself  and  whipped  out  a  match  to  light 
the  cigar.  Bat  was  clicking  his  cigar  case  open 
and  shut.  This  editor  was  all  nerves  too. 
Nerves  seemed  to  go  with  the  job;  but  these 
nerves  were  not  jangled.  He  leaned  back  in  his 
swing  chair  with  one  boot  against  the  desk. 
"What  makes  a  man  successful,  anyway?  It 
isn't  ability.  Your  news-man  across  the  way 
could  buy  our  office  out  with  brains;  but  gee 
whitaker,  he's  worse  than  a  dose  of  bitters! 
Now  take  your  Senator,  he  hasn't  either  the  ed 
ucation  or  the  brains  of  lots  of  our  cub  reporters, 
here!"  He  paused  nibbling  his  cigar  end. 
"Yet,  he's  successful.  We  aren't,  except  in  a 
sort  of  doggon-hack-horse  way.  You're  next  to 
the  old  man,  Bat,  what  do  you  say  makes  him 
successful?" 


THE  HANDY  MAN  GETS  BUSY  119 

Bat  clicked  the  cigar  case  shut  and  put  it  in 
his  pocket. 

"Two  things:  he's  a  specialist;  he  delivers  the 
goods  no  other  man  can  deliver;  and  he  doesn't 
fool  any  time  away  by  bucking  into  a  buzz  saw, 
fighting  windmills  and  that  sort  of  thing,  way 
you  fellows  'agin  the  Government'  do." 

The  telegraph  man  removed  his  cigar. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  ' delivers  the  goods 
no  other  man  can  deliver'?  Do  you  mean  the 
pork  barrel?" 

"No,"  said  Bat,  "I  don't,  though  the  pork 
barrel  is  a  d — ee — d  essential  part  of  the  game. 
Here's  what  I  mean;  when  you  came  to  this 
Valley,  there  was  nothing  doing.  We  had  mines ; 
but  we  hadn't  a  smelter!  Well,  Senator  got  the 
coking  coal  for  a  smelting  site  and  the  big  devel 
opers  came  in.  Other  men  couldn't,  wouldn't  or 
didn't  dare  to  do  it!  He  did  it.  He  delivered 
the  goods  and  got  the  big  fellows  interested." 

"He  stole  'em,  those  coal  lands.  He  jugged 
'em  thro'  Land  Office  records  with  false  entries." 
The  telegraph  man  had  lowered  his  voice. 

"We  don't  call  'em  stolen  when  it's  been  the 
making  of  the  Valley." 

"No,  because  the  Smelter  is  a  sacred  cow 
mustn't  be  touched  for  the  sake  of  the  grease." 

"Then,  there  was  nothing  doing  in  lumber; 
big  fellows  wouldn't  come  in  and  develop.  Well, 
Moyese  got  'em  the  timber  tracts  for  a  song. 


120     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Other  men  couldn't,  wouldn't  or  didn't  dare. 
He  delivered  the  goods — " 

"The  courage  of  the  highwayman,"  com 
mented  the  wire  editor  with  a  puff. 

"We  don't  call  it  that  when  it  helps  the  Val 
ley,"  corrected  the  handy  man. 

"No,  it's  another  sacred  bovine;  mustn't  be 
touched  for  fear  of  the  axle  grease.  See?  I've 
got  a  list  of  'em — public  lands,  through  freights, 
water  power,  smelter,  lumber  deals,"  the  tele 
graph  man  opened  his  table  drawer  and  held  out 
a  scrawled  list.  "If  you  call  that  delivering  the 
goods,  I  call  it  filling  the  barrel.  What's  the 
other  factor  for  success?" 

"Not  bucking  into  a  buzz  saw.  The  world  is 
mostly  made  of  barkers  and  builders.  You  fel 
lows  spend  all  the  time  barking.  Then  you  won 
der  there's  nothing  to  show  in  the  way  of  a 
building. ' ' 

The  telegraph  wires  began  to  click  and  the 
girl  operator  came  in  with  some  tissue  sheets. 

"Fight  in  Frisco — that  goes,"  commented  the 
telegraph  editor  dashing  in  the  "ands"  and 
"buts"  and  the  punctuation.  He  stuck  the  slip 
on  the  printer's  hook.  "Wedding  in  New 
port — -" 

"That  goes,"  laughed  the  handy  man,  "There's 
no  sacred  cow  about  that." 

The  telegraph  man  wrote  headings  for  the 
dispatches  and  stuck  them  on  the  hook  for  the 
printer's  boy. 


THE  HANDY  MAN  GETS  BUSY  121 

"Speaking  of  sacred  cows,  it  isn't  exactly 
cows,  but  it's  in  the  stock  line  all  right — what  do 
you  know  about  that  business  last  night  up  on 
Bim  Bocks'?  Stage  driver  has  been  blazing  it 
all  round  town — " 

' i Stage  driver's  a  liar,"  emphatically  declared 
Brydges. 

"Been  trying  to  get  the  news  for  an  hour;  the 
wires  are  cut.  Can't  get  'em  by  phone.  Think 
I'll  send  a  man  up  to-night  with  a  photographer." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't,"  drawled  Bat  sleepily.  "It 
isn't  worth  it.  I've  just  come  down.  Whole 
row's  over.  You  can't  get  a  dub  in  the  Valley 
to  open  his  mouth.  Same  old  gag  we've  used 
for  the  last  ten  years,  'heavily  armed  band  of 
masked  men,'  l scene  like  a  butcher's  shambles,' 
and  that  guy  of  a  sheriff  'scouring  the  hills  for 
the  miscreants.'  I'll  bet  he's  under  his  bed 
scared  blue." 

"Who  did  it?" 

"Same  old  gang  of  outside  grazers,  drovers 
who  skipped  the  State  line.  I  succeeded  in  get 
ting  their  names  after  a  good  deal  of  trouble. ' ' 

"You  did,  did  you?  Then  give  us  a  stick  about 
it,  will  you?  Date  it  special  at  the  Eim  Eocks ! 
Trouble  is,  if  I  do  send  a  man  up,  business  office 
will  kick  at  the  expense  account;  for  there's 
nothing  in  it;  and  that  kind  of  news  hurts  the 
Valley." 

So  Mr.  Bat  Brydges  wrote  forty  lines  of  two 
paragraphs  in  which  he  warned  the  public  that 


122     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

this  sort  of  thing  had  to  stop;  the  West  would 
not  stand  for  interference  from  outside  cattle 
men  who  were  trying  to  wrest  the  range  away 
from  local  grazers.  There  followed  the  names 
of  six  men  concerned  in  the  Eim  Eock  fray. 
Whose  names  they  were,  neither  Bat  nor  any 
one  else  knew.  Also  Mr.  Sheriff  Flood  was  not 
described  as  "a  guy"  nor  pictured  as  reposing  un 
der  his  bed.  He  might  have  been  a  walking 
arsenal  of  defence  for  the  Valley.  According  to 
Mr.  Bat  Brydges,  Sheriff  Flood  was  busy  on  the 
case  and  had  wired  the  authorities  of  the  adjoin 
ing  States  to  be  on  the  look  out  for  the  guilty 
parties.  There  followed  a  description  of  the 
guilty  parties  photographed  accurately  from  Mr. 
Bat  Brydges  ?s  retina. 

The  third  newspaper  office  was  the  least  easy 
for  the  handy  man's  tactics.  The  editor  was  an 
independent  of  the  fiery  order.  Bat  avoided  the 
editor  and  tackled  a  young  reporter  at  the  noon 
hour. 

"What  do  you  say  to  a  spin  in  the  40  h.  p.  to 
night?"  he  asked. 

"What's  on?" 

The  youth  was  reading  an  ink-smudged  galley 
proof. 

Bat  sat  down  on  the  desk  where  he  could  read 
over  the  other's  shoulder.  The  proof  reeked  of 
"gore"  and  "shambles"  and  "heavily  armed 
masked  men"  and  rifle  shots  thick  as  hail  stones 


THE  HANDY  MAN  GETS  BUSY  123 

with  a  sheriff  careening  over  the  Mesas  at  break 
neck  speed  slathered  with  zeal  for  law. 

"What  reforms  are  you  jollying  along  now?" 
asked  Bat. 

"We'll  jolly  you  fellows  when  this  comes  out." 

"I've  always  said  if  I  were  his  Satanic  Majesty 
and  wished  to  defeat  the  goody-goodies,  I 
wouldn't  bother  fighting  'em!  I'd  take  an  after 
noon  nap  and  let  them  buck  themselves  by  their 
lies  and  bickerings." 

The  youth  ran  his  eye  down  the  galley  proof. 

"Who  filled  you  up  with  this  dope?"  Brydges 
lowered  his  voice  to  an  altogether  amused  and 
very  confidential  key. 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?" 

"Matter?     There's  nothing  right  about  it." 

"Goes  all  the  same.  Got  snap!  It's  good 
stuff." 

"Stuffing,  you  mean,"  corrected  the  handy  man. 
"Say,  where  ever  did  you  get  it?  Talk  of  stuff? 
Somebody  has  mistaken  you  for  a  spring 
chicken. ' 9 

"Got  it  straight.  It's  all  right!  Fellow  from 
the  English  colony — " 

"English  Colony?  Those  Eookeries — Mother 
Carey's  chickens.  Do  you  know  what  that  Book- 
ery  gang  is?  A  lot  of  gambling  toughs,  remit 
tance  doughheads — " 

"That  doesn't  spoil  a  ripping  good  story! 
I'm  going  to  wire  a  column  to  Chicago." 

"No,     you're     not?"     contradicted     Brydges. 


124  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

"That  kind  of  thing  hurts  the  State  more  than 
ten  thousand  dollars  will  advertise  it.  You  go 
over  your  advertising  columns  my  boy — " 

"All  right!    It's  up  to  you ?" 

Bat  whistled  and  swung  the  galley  proofs  be 
tween  his  knees. 

"Doesn't  matter  what  you  say  out  here. 
Everybody  knows  your  rag  sheet  will  contradict 
to-morrow  what  you  say  to-day  in  headings  red 
and  long  as  a  lead  pencil.  You'll  contradict  in  a 
little  hidden  paragraph  tucked  away  among  the 
ads.,  and  I  guess  we  know  which  are  the  ads. 
out  here;  but,  if  you  want  any  more  dope  on  in 
side  stuff,  don't  you  send  that  East!  You  have 
applied  for  a  job  on  our  paper  twice.  If  you 
want  one,  don't  you  send  that  East!  What  do 
they  pay  you,  anyway  1 ' ' 

The  youth  paused  to  estimate;  and  youth's 
hopes  are  ever  high. 

"That's  worth  a  hundred  to  me!" 

"No,  you  don't !  They  pay  you  six  and  ten  and 
sometimes  two,  but  it's  worth  a  hundred  if  you 
keep  it  out,  nice  crisp  little  bills,  my  boy.  Call 
for  you  to-night  at  five;  but  don't  you  play  that 
story  up." 

It  was  then  and  there  Bat  showed  himself  a 
past  master.  He  sauntered  out  of  the  office  hum 
ming. 

"Say,  Brydges,"  called  the  youth,  "what's 
wrong  with  this  account,  anyway?" 

"All    wrong,"    reiterated    Brydges    stepping 


THE  HANDY  MAN  GETS  BUSY!  125 

back.  "Wasn't  a  man  lost  his  life.  Wasn't  a 
man  on  the  Eange  at  the  time,  only  a  kid  got 
in  the  way  of  a  stampede!  Here,  I'll  give  it  to 
you  straight!  I've  just  come  down  from  the 
Valley!  You  tell  what  happened  down  in  Mesa 
and  Garfield  counties  ten  years  ago,  and  up  in 
Wyoming  last  spring!  Give  it  to  the  other 
States.  Don't  give  your  own  State  a  black  eye! 
Come  on  out  and  have  something  with  me,  and 
I'll  fix  you  up  as  we  feed." 

So  when  the  Independent's  fiery  columns  came 
out  with  red  scare  heads  and  gory  recital  full  of 
reference  to  "something  rotten  in  the  State  of 
Denmark"  and  "damnable  rascality,"  there  was 
only  one  emasculated  innocuous  column  given  to 
the  local  event,  but  seven  columns  were  steeped 
with  the  bloody  details  of  sheep  massacres  and 
stock  raids  and  Kange  Wars  in  other  states  in 
"the  good  old  gun-toting  days." 

Bat's  last  act  that  day  was  to  send  a  telegram 
care  of  the  East-bound  Limited  to  Senator 
Moyese.  It  read,  "All  local  papers  out  highly 
gratulatory  references  your  efforts  to  punish 
guilty  parties." 


CHAPTEE  XI 

SETTING   OUT   ON   THE   LONG   TKAIL 

In  the  half  light  of  mist  and  dawn,  the  Ranger 
ascended  the  Eidge  trail. 

Life  was  at  flood-tide.  Thought  focussed  to 
one  point  of  consciousness  set  on  fire  of  its  own 
rays.  He  walked  as  one  unseeing,  unhearing, 
hardened  to  singleness  of  purpose,  heedless  of 
the  steepness  of  the  climb,  of  his  blood  leaping 
like  a  mountain  cataract,  of  his  muscles  moving 
with  the  ease  of  piston  rods;  heedless  of  all  but 
the  warmth  of  the  glow  enveloping  his  outer 
body  from  the  flame  burning  within. 

He  did  not  follow  the  zig-zag  Eidge  trail  but 
clambered  straight  up  the  face  of  the  slope,  fol 
lowing  pretty  much  the  short  cut-off  they  had 
taken  the  night  before.  He  came  to  the  crag 
where  the  spruce  logs  spanned  the  tinkling  water 
course.  There  was  a  gossamer  scarf  of  cloud 
hanging  among  the  mosses  of  the  trees.  The 
peak  came  out  opal  fire  above  belts  of  clouds. 
The  sage-green  moss  spanning  the  spruces 
turned  to  a  jewel-dropped  thing  in  a  sun-bathed 
rain-washed  world  of  flawless  clouds  and  jubilant 
waters.  He  drew  a  deep  breath.  The  air  was 

126 


ON  THE  LONG  TRAIL  127 

tonic  of  imprisoned  sunlight  and  resinous  heal 
ing.  Was  each  day's  birth  the  dawn  to  new  be 
ing? 

It  was  here  he  had  met  her  the  night  before. 
Waves  of  consciousness,  tender  delirious  con 
sciousness,  flooded  and  surprised  him.  He  had 
asked  for  a  seal  of  memory.  He  knew  now  it 
would  never  be  a  memory :  it  would  be  conscious 
ness,  ever-living,  ever  present;  a  compulsion  not 
to  be  controlled  because  it  was  not  his  own;  and 
never  to  be  quenched  because  it  burned  within. 
If  he  had  been  a  weakling,  the  seal  would  have 
been  a  seal  to  self;  but  because  an  elemental  war 
for  right  was  winnowing  the  self  out  of  him,  he 
knew  it  was  a  seal  to  service. 

Day-dawn  marked  the  creation  of  a  new  world ; 
and  That  had  opened  the  doors  for  him  to  a  life 
that  no  telling  could  have  revealed.  Would  it 
be  the  same  with  the  Nation?  Would  this  strug 
gle  open  the  doors  to  a  new  life;  or  would  the 
powers  that  stood  for  law  and  right  go  on  mark 
ing  time  inside  the  firing  line,  while  the  powers 
that  stood  for  wrong  and  outrage  held  their 
course  rampant,  unchecked;  straining  the  law 
not  to  protect  right  but  to  extend  wrong;  per 
verting  the  courts;  stealing  where  they  chose  to 
steal;  killing  where  they  chose  to  kill;  deluging 
the  land  with  anarchy  by  sweeping  away  law, 
just  as  surely  as  the  removal  of  the  sluice  gates 
would  set  loose  flood  waters! 


128  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

He  ascended  the  rest  of  the  dripping  Eidge  trail 
in  a  swing  that  was  almost  a  run. 

Below  the  Eanger  cabin  on  the  Homestead 
Slope  stood  the  large  oblong  canvas  bunk  house 
of  the  road  gang  employed  by  the  Forest  Serv 
ice. 

"Hi — fellows,"  shouted  Wayland,  shaking  the 
tent  flap.  "All  hands  up !"  And  he  ordered  the 
foreman  to  send  the  road  gang  to  skin  and  burn 
and  bury  what  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  battlements. 

As  the  Eim  Eocks  lay  a  few  feet  outside  the 
bounds  of  the  National  Forests,  it  will  be  seen 
that  Wayland  had  stopped  marking  time  behind 
the  law  and  gone  out  beyond  the  firing  line.  If 
it  isn't  clear  to  you  how  the  Eanger  was  exceed 
ing  the  authority  of  the  law,  then  read  the  Sen 
ator's  speeches  about  "the  Forest  and  Land 
Service  men  going  outside  their  jurisdiction  em 
ploying  Government  men  to  do  work  which  was 
not  Government  Service  at  all." 

The  Eanger  saddled  his  own  broncho  for  him 
self  and  a  horse  belonging  to  one  of  his  assist 
ants  for  the  old  frontiersman,  who  must  be  some 
where  on  the  upper  Mesas.  To  each  saddle  he 
fastened  a  Service  hatchet  and  a  cased  rifle. 
Then,  he  caught  one  of  the  mules  of  the  road 
gang  for  the  pack  saddle.  Going  inside  the  cabin, 
he  furbished  together  such  provisions  as  his  bis 
cuit  box  shelves  afforded,  a  sack  containing  half 
a  ham,  a  quarter  bag  of  flour,  one  tin  of  canned 


ON  THE  LONG  TRAIL  129 

beans,  a  tobacco  pouch  filled  with  tea,  another 
pouch  with  sugar  on  one  side  of  the  dividing 
leather  and  salt  in  the  other.  Then,  he  cinched  a 
couple  of  cow-boy  slickers  over  the  pack  saddle, 
and,  in  place  of  the  green  Service  coat  which  he 
had  left  at  the  Mission,  donned  a  leather  jacket, 
took  a  last  look  to  see  if  a  water-proof  match  case 
were  in  the  inside  pocket,  ran  back  to  the  cabin 
for  a  half -flask  of  brandy,  and  an  extra  hat,  and 
with  the  other  horse  and  the  pack  mule  in  front, 
he  mounted  his  pony  and  set  out  for  the  Eim 
Eocks.  It  will  be  seen  this  was  not  the  equip 
ment  of  a  man  who  intended  to  remain  marking 
time. 

Just  for  a  second,  he  pondered  which  path  to 
follow.  It  would  take  an  hour  to  go  down  the 
Kidge  trail,  cross  the  Valley  and  ascend  the  terra 
cotta  road  of  the  Eim  Eocks.  Couldn't  he  jump 
his  horses  over  the  gully  that  cut  between  the 
Holy  Cross  and  the  Upper  Mesa?  He  headed  his 
horse  into  the  tangle  of  hemlock  and  larch,  the 
mule  trotting  ahead  snatching  bites  of  dogwood 
and  willow  from  the  edge  of  the  dripping  trail, 
the  Eanger  riding  as  Westerners  ride,  glued  to 
the  leather,  guiding  by  the  loose  neck  rein  instead 
of  the  bit,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  to  keep  the 
little  mule  in  line. 

A  turn  to  the  left  through  a  thicket  of  devil's 
club  brought  him  where  the  Eidge  overlooked  the 
Eiver.  Wayland  reined  up  sharply.  A  pile  of 


130     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

logs  scaled  and  marked  with  the  U.  S.  stamp  lay 
where  the  slightest  topple  would  send  them  over 
a  natural  chute  into  the  Eiver.  He  had  not  scaled 
those  logs :  neither  had  his  assistants.  There  was 
no  record  of  them  on  the  books.  Of  course,  he 
had  heard  the  chop  and  slash  at  the  settlers ' 
cabins,  but  homesteaders  don't  farm  on  the  edge 
of  a  vertical  precipice  unless  they  are  a  lumber 
company;  and  logs  tossed  over  that  precipice  to 
the  Eiver  were  destined  for  only  one  market, 
Smelter  City.  Then  he  remembered  giving  a  per 
mit  to  a  Swede  settler  of  the  Homestead  Slope 
to  take  out  windfall  and  dead  tops  for  a  little 
portable  gasoline  engine;  but  the  permit  didn't 
cover  this  area. 

"Having  stopped  stealing  half  a  million  from 
the  Bitter  Boot,  they've  started  their  dummies  in 
here."  He  looked  at  the  gashed  timber-slash  as 
a  thrifty  man  looks  at  wantonness  and  waste; 
it  was  a  gaping  wound  in  the  forest  side,  old  and 
young  trees  alike  hacked  down,  the  stumps  of 
the  big  trees,  not  eighteen  inches  low  as  the  regu 
lations  provided,  but  three  and  four  and  five  feet 
high  of  waste  to  rot  and  gather  fungus,  the  big 
gest  of  the  giant  spruce  cut  from  a  scaffolding 
nine  feet  from  the  ground,  leaving  wasted  lumber 
enough  to  build  a  house. 

"This  was  done  when  I  was  away  on  my  last 
long  patrol,"  reflected  Wayland.  The  slash  of 
brushwood  and  wasted  tops  lay  higher  than  his 
horse's  head.  "A  fine  fire-trap  for  the  fall 


ON  THE  LONG  TRAIL  131 

drought,"  thought  Wayland  angrily.  "One 
spark  in  that  tinder  pile  in  a  high  wind ;  and  there 
would  be  no  forests  left  on  Holy  Cross. " 

What  did  it  mean,  this  open  defiance,  not  of 
himself,  (he  was  a  mere  cog  in  the  big  wheel;  so 
;was  the  entire  Forest  Service,)  this  open  defiance 
of  law;  this  open  theft  of  Government  property? 
Connected  with  the  outrage  of  the  Eange  War, 
and  the  Senator's  advice  for  him  to  stop  suing 
for  restitution  of  the  two-thousand  acres  of  coal 
lands,  and  the  handy-man's  urgent  arguments  for 
him  "to  chuck  the  fight  and  come  down  to  the 
Valley,"  the  Ranger  knew  well  enough  what  the 
pile  of  stolen  logs  stamped  with  a  counterfeit 
Government  hatchet  meant;  stamped,  of  course, 
by  some  poor  ignorant  dummy  foreigner.  The 
Eing  were  setting  their  hired  tools  on  to  the  fight. 
And  far  away  in  the  East — yes  it  was  the  East's 
business  to  see  what  went  on  in  the  West — were 
myriads  of  wage-earners  forced  to  pay  exorbi 
tantly  for  coal  and  wood  and  lumber  and  house 
rent  because  of  this  wanton  waste;  this  seizing 
fraudulently  by  the  few  of  the  property  belong 
ing  to  the  many.  If  they  had  thrown  down  the 
challenge,  assuredly  he  was  taking  it  up!  What 
would  the  people  do  about  it,  he  wondered,  when 
they  came  to  know?  Would  any  power  on  earth 
waken  the  people  up  to  do  something,  and  stop 
talking?  A  Roman  ruler  had  fiddled  while  his 
imperial  city  burned.  What  was  the  many- 
headed  ruler  of  the  great  republic  doing,  while 


132  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

enemies  burned  and  cut  and  slashed  and  wasted 
in  wantonness  the  property  of  the  public  for  the 
enrichment  of  the  Ring? 

The  Kanger  touched  his  horse  to  a  gallop  and 
jumped  all  three  animals  through  the  criss-cross 
of  wind-fall  and  slash,  coming  out  on  the  edge 
of  the  rock  chasm  that  cut  the  Upper  Mesas  off 
from  the  Holy  Cross.  The  gully  crumbled  on  the 
near  side  and  shelved  on  the  far,  twenty  feet 
deep  and  fifty  wide,  altogether  not  very  jump- 
able,  the  Eanger  thought.  He  zig-zagged  in  and 
out  among  the  larches  along  the  margin  of  the 
rock  cut-way,  noting  "dead  tops"  ripe  for  the 
axe,  pines  where  the  squirrels  had  cached  cone 
seed  at  the  root,  spruce  logs  gone  to  punk  with 
alien  seedlings  coming  up  from  the  dead  trunk, 
yellow  ant-eaten  wood-rot  ripped  open  by  some 
bear  hunting  the  white  eggs;  noting,  above  all, 
the  wonderful  flame  of  the  painter 's  brush,  spikes 
with  the  tints  of  the  rainbow,  like  Indian  arrows 
dipped  in  blood,  knee-deep,  multi-colored,  fiery, 
dyed  in  the  very  essence  of  sunglow,  humming 
with  bees  and  alive  with  butterflies,  lives  of  a 
summer  in  the  seon  of  ages  that  the  snow  flakes 
had  taken  manufacturing  soil  out  of  granite,  silt 
out  of  snow. 

"The  little  snow  flake  gets  there  all  right, " 
reflected  Wayland.  "It  takes  time;  but  she 
carves  out  her  little  snow  flake  job  all  the  same, 
and  the  rocks  go  down  before  her!  Guess  if  we 


ON  THE  LONG  TRAIL  133 

follow  the  law,  we're  hitched  up  with  the  stars 
all  right." 

He  reined  up  and  caught  at  a  pine  bough. 
A  sight  to  hold  the  eye  of  any  forester  held  his; 
the  enormous  trunk  of  a  fallen  giant,  a  dozen 
dwarfs  growing  from  its  punk,  spanned  the  gully. 
Wayland  slid  off  his  horse.  The  great  trunk  lay 
destitute  of  lesser  branches  to  the  tip  on  the  far 
side  of  the  chasm  like  great  characters  that  dis 
card  mannerisms. 

The  Eanger  struck  his  Service  axe  into  the 
trunk.  The  bark  held  firm,  though  he  heard  the 
ring  of  the  dry-rot  at  the  heart  that  had  brought 
the  old  giant  crashing  down  to  become  food  for 
the  scrubs  and  pigmies  of  the  forest.  Wayland 
picked  out  two  spindly  birches.  Quick  strokes 
brought  them  down.  Walking  out  on  the  dead 
trunk,  he  threw  a  birch  on  each  side  as  a  guard 
rail,  affording  fence,  not  protection,  to  the  waver 
ing  faith  of  a  shy  horse,  ' '  all  a  feeling  of  security 
to  steady  a  giddy  head, ' '  he  reflected.  He  led  the 
little  pack  mule;  and  the  bronchos  followed.  A 
moment  later,  he  was  galloping  through  the 
larches  and  low  juniper  that  fringed  the  Mesas 
above  the  Eim  Eock  trail,  the  mule  huff -huffing  to 
the  fore  snatching  mouthfuls  on  the  run.  Then, 
with  a  lope,  Wayland 's  broncho  leaped  out  on  the 
bare  sage-grown  Mesas,  the  mule  with  ears 
pointed,  nose  high,  heading  straight  for  the  white 
canvas-top  of  a  tented  wagon. 


134  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

For  a  moment,  the  light  blinded  Wayland 's 
sight;  for  the  sun  had  come  up  in  an  orange  fan; 
and  the  sky  was  not  blue:  it  shone  the  dazzling 
silver  of  mercury.  Against  the  high  rarefied  air 
came  in  view  the  figure  of  a  man,  grotesquely 
exaggerated,  head  and  shoulders  first,  then  body, 
riding  a  heavy  horse,  saddleless,  hatless,  coatless, 
white  of  hair,  heels  pressed  to  his  horse's  flanks, 
bent  far  over  the  animal's  neck  as  Indians  ride, 
galloping  for  the  Eim  Eock  trail,  or  a  second 
jump  from  the  battlements. 

Wayland  stood  up  in  his  stirrups  and  with 
hands  trumpeted  uttered  a  yell.  The  rider 
jerked  his  horse  to  a  rear  flounder,  waved  fran 
tically,  then  split  the  air — 

"  Glory  be  to  the  powers — but — A'm  glad  to  see 
you!  A've  headed  them  off  from  the  South  trail. 
We've  got  them,  Wayland,  the  low  dastard 
scoundrels!  We've  got  them  trapped  like  rats 
in  a  trap!  They're  in  the  Pass  if  youVe  a  man 
in  the  Valley  with  spirit  enough  to  get  out  with 
a  gun!"  He  stopped  for  breath  as  the  two 
horses  floundered  together. 

"We  haven't,"  answered  Wayland. 

"They  jumped  the  gully!  Man  alive,  y*  ought 
t'  seen  them  jump  the  gully!  A  slammed  them 
right  down  into  the  bottom  of  it.  A  would  to 
God  ?t  had  been  to  the  bottomless  pit.  The  same 
gentry  A  saw  that  night  under  your  Eidge,  sav 
ing  his  High  Mightiness.  The  evil  fellow  wi'  the 


ON  THE  LONG  TRAIL  135 

sheep  hide  leggings,  an'  the  one  armed  black 
guard  in  the  cow-boy  slicker,  an'  the  corduroy 
dandy  wi'  the  red  tie,  an'  four  more  of  them 
same  card-sharp  gentry.  A  rode  'long  the  top 
of  y'r  gully  an'  poured  six  bullets  after  'em! 
Man  alive!  A  heard  the  fellow  in  the  yellow 
slicker  yell  bloody  murder  when  A  fired!  A'm 
hopin' — God  forgive  me — A've  nipped  him  in 
the  other  arm  an'  brought  him  winged  t'  th' 
throne  o'  Grace!  They  followed  the  gully  bed 
behind  y'r  Mountain,  the  white  horse  same  as 
yon  night  under  y'r  Ridge,  limpin',  the  one  armed 
man  rockin'  in  the  saddle  an'  spittin'  out  blas 
phemous  filth  for  th'  others  to  wait.  A've  kept 
guard  all  night,  yellin'  an'  howlin'  like  a  vigi- 
lantee,  knowin'  they're  not  the  gentry  to  run  into 
the  arms  of  them  good  old-time  neck-tie  com- 
'tees;  an'  not  dreamin'  A  hadn't  another  cart 
ridge  to  my  name!"  The  old  man  swabbed  the 
sweat  from  his  brow. 

"A  left  m'  coat  and  togs  back  at  yon  chuck 
wagon!"  Wayland  noticed  he  was  riding  stock 
ing  soled. 

' '  I  have  an  extra  hat  for  you  here. ' '  Wayland 
tossed  the  soft  felt  from  the  pocket  of  his  leather 
coat. 

"Oh,  A  saw  'em  plain  enough;  same  ill-lookin' 
six  that  y'r  hell-kite  laws  hatch  on  a  bad  frontier ! 
Make  no  mistake.  Yon  white  vest  is  at  the  bot 
tom  o'  this  deviltry!  Who  is  he,  Wayland?" 

Wayland  related  the  visit  of  a  white-vest  to 


136  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

his  Eidge  cabin;  and  they  trotted  forward  to 
wards  a  sheep  wagon. 

"How  did  y'  come  up  here?"  asked  the  old 
frontiersman. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  horse?"  retorted  the 
Eanger. 

"One  of  the  chuck  wagons'  teams — " 

"Herders  all  right!"  asked  Wayland.  He 
knew  what  the  answer  must  be;  the  same  answer 
that  had  been  disgracing  the  West  these  twenty 
years. 

The  old  man  jerked  his  horse  to  a  dead  stop, 
drew  himself  erect  and  looked  straight  at  the 
Eanger. 

"Wayland,  man,  is  this  Eussia — or  Hell?  Is 
there  another  country  in  the  world  calls  itself 
civilized  would  allow  four  herder  men  to  be 
burned  to  death?  Does  the  country  know  what 
is  doing?  Do  you  know  what  happened?  Do 
you  know  that  last  wagon  is  left  there  only  be 
cause  the  rains  put  out  the  fire?  Y'll  find  the 
iron  tires  of  the  other  wagons  with  skeletons  of 
men  chained  to  the  wheels.  A  came  up  just  as 
they  were  settin'  aboot  firm'  the  second  wagon. 
They'd  ripped  all  the  flour  bags  open  and  loosed 
the  horses.  This  one,  A  caught  full  pelther  down 
the  trail." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

They  trotted  their  horses  across  the  Mesas  in 
silence  towards  the  glaring  white  canvas  wagon. 


ON  THE  LONG  TRAIL  137 

Broken  harness,  half -burned  spokes,  the  charred 
hub  of  a  wheel,  snapped  whiffle-trees,  the  white 
dust  of  scattered  flour  littered  the  ground.  A 
brown  scorch  of  flame  up  the  back  of  the  tent 
above  the  remaining  wagon  marked  where  the 
rains  had  extinguished  the  fire.  A  smouldering 
ill-smelling  ash  heap  told  the  fate  of  the  other 
wagons. 

"Hell-devilish  work,  hell-devilish  work!  TV 
beasts  of  the  field  couldna'  conceive  such  base 
ness,  Wayland !  'Tis  the  work  o '  devils  spawned 
by  harpies!  They  say  there  is  no  devil  to-day! 
Hoh!"  The  old  man  puffed  the  heresy  from 
his  pursed  lips.  "The  beasts  don't  prey  on  their 
own  'cepting  the  rats  that  starve;  but,  man, 
there's  no  explanation  of  his  self-destruction 
'cepting  the  old  fashioned  one,  Wayland.  'He 
was  possessed  by  a  devil.'  " 

The  Eanger  had  dismounted  and  was  prodding 
the  ash-heap  with  his  heavy  boot  sole.  Then,  he 
gave  the  embers  a  smart  flap  with  his  whip.  The 
blackened  hub  of  a  wheel  went  circling  out.  Sud 
denly,  Wayland  turned  away  his  face,  white  and 
nauseated,  hardened  to  resolution  granite  as  the 
rocks.  Eyeless  sockets  of  a  skeleton  face  pro 
truded  from  the  ashes;  and  on  the  ground  were 
stains  which  the  rains  had  not  washed  out.  It 
was  then  Wayland  noticed  the  bloody  thumb 
marks  round  the  canvas  front  of  the  wagon  seat 
where  the  driver  had  been  dragged  down. 


138  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

For  a  little  time  neither  man  spoke.  But,  was 
it  not  the  natural  ending  of  brutality  unleashed 
of  law;  of  crime  left  alone  by  the  good? 

"To  mutilate  thousands  of  sheep  was  damnable 
enough, "  said  Wayland;  "but — this?" 

The  old  frontiersman  had  picked  up  coat  and 
boots  flung  aside  the  night  before.  He  stood 
holding  by  his  horse's  mane  looking  down.  "And 
this  is  a  white  man's  land,"  he  said.  "To  this 
have  y'  prostituted  freedom  bought  by  th'  blood 
of  saints  an'  martyrs?  Not  in  th'  heat  o'  pas 
sion,  but  for  filthy  gain,  has  a  free  people  come 
to  this?  The  heads  o'  kings  fell  on  the  bloody 
Nock  for  less  crime  in  days  not  so  soft  spoken 
as  these.  Is  y'r  freedom,  freedom  to  right  or  to 
wrong?  Is  it  to  send  y'r  Nation  smash  over  the 
precipice?  Wayland,  is  this  Democracy?" 

The  Kanger  did  not  answer  for  a  moment. 

"No,"  he  said  quietly,  "it  isn't  Democracy  any 
more  than  your  Kobber  Barons  were  Monarchy! 
Don't  you  make  that  mistake;  this  is  Anarchy, 
the  Anarchy  of  unrestrained  greed !  You  fought 
it  in  your  plundering  Scotch  Eobber  Barons  long 
ago !  We  have  to  fight  it  to-day  in  our  plundering 
plutocrats ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   MAJESTY  OF  THE  LAW   VEILS   ITSELF 

"Do  you  mean  me  to  believe,''  the  old  frontiers 
man  drew  himself  up  to  the  full  height  of  British 
superiority  to  everything  outside  the  island  of  its 
own  circumscribed  knowledge,  "do  you  mean  me 
to  believe  that  if  any  of  these  poor  herders  had 
escaped  as  witnesses,  we'd  not  have  been  able  to 
send  these  blackguard  murderers  to  the  gallows  ? ' ' 

The  Eanger  had  signalled  for  some  of  the  road 
gang  to  ascend  from  below  the  battlements  to  keep 
guard  till  the  coroner  could  come.  The  little  pack 
mule  to  the  fore,  Wayland  and  Matthews  were 
picking  the  way  slowly  down  the  terra  cotta  trail 
of  the  Eim  Eocks. 

"It  does  not  make  the  slightest  difference  in 
the  world  what  you  or  I  believe,  Sir !  The  facts 
are  unless  you  could  offer  a  witness  money  enough 
to  take  him  out  the  United  States  and  to  keep 
him  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  he  would  develop 
a  good-forgetter,  or  else  the  same  old  gag — 'been 
blind  folded,'  ' didn't  see,'  and  so  on,  and  on,  and 
on;  you  can't  blame  them!  I'll  bet  if  every  one 
of  the  herders  had  escaped  instead  of  festering 
there  in  the  ash  heap,  they'd  all  be  legging  it 

139 


140     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

out  of  the  country  far  and  fast  as  they  could  go." 

The  little  mule  came  to  a  stand  at  a  bend  in 
the  switch  back;  and  the  old  evangelist  sat  rumi 
nating  silently  on  his  broncho. 

"Y'have  a  sheriff ?" 

Wayland  laughed. 

"He's  like  the  Indian  flies ;  a  no-see-him.  He'll 
ride  over  the  hills  for  weeks  and  if  he  tumbles 
over  the  top  of  his  prisoner,  he  can't  find  his 
man ! ' ' 

The  old  Britisher  looked  doubtfully  at  Way- 
land,  as  much  as  to  say,  "I  don't  believe  you." 

"You're  no  temptin'  me  to  take  the  law  into 
our  own  hands?" 

Again  Wayland  laughed. 

"My  dear  sir,  you  don't  understand!  I  don't 
want  to  drag  you  into  this  at  all !  For  ten  years, 
the  powers  that  stand  for  law  in  this  country  have 
been  marking  time  behind  the  firing  line;  while 
the  other  fellow  got  away  with  the  goods.  They 
have  been  marking  time  while  Crime  scored,  and 
what  you  call  the  Devil  kept  tally." 

The  old  man  nodded  his  head  approvingly. 
"That's  all  true!" 

"You  ask  me  if  I  intend  to  break  the  law?  No, 
Sir,  I  do  not ;  but  I  do  intend  to  carry  the  law  out 
beyond  the  firing  line.  The  thief  strains  the  law 
to  get  away  with  the  goods;  I  am  going  to  strain 
the  law  to  get  them  back.  The  murderer  strains 
the  law  to  protect  his  damned  useless  neck;  I'm 
going  to  strain  the  law  to  break  his  neck.  Un- 


THE  LAW  VEILS  ITSELF  141 

less,"  lie  added,  "I  break  my  own  neck  doing  it." 

The  old  man  had  drawn  down  his  brows.  "A 
don't  just  like  the  sound  of  it;  what's  your  plan?" 

"  To  go  out  with  a  gun  till  I  get  them ;  the  way 
your  own  Mounted  Police  do  up  in  Canada!  I'm 
going  to  quit  monkeying  with  technicalities  in  the 
twilight  zone  .  .  .  and  go  out  .  .  .  after 
the  man." 

The  old  Britisher  sat  thinking:  "Wayland,  if 
A  was  managing  this  thing,  first  thing  A'd  do 
would  be  blow  such  a  blast  on  your  local  press, 
the  authorities  would  have  to  sit  up,  then— A  'd  go 
after  your  sheriff  if  A  had  to  tackle  the  coward 
by  the  scruff  of  his  scurvy  neck,  A'd  make  him 
ashamed  .  .  .  not  ...  to  act." 

"All  right,  Sir!  Manage  this  thing  .  .  . 
manage  it  just  as  you  would  behind  your  hide 
bound  British  laws!  We'll  pass  the  Senator's 
ranch  in  ten  minutes.  You  can  telephone  down 
to  '  The  Smelter  City  Herald. '  I  '11  get  something 
ready  to  eat  while  you  telephone.  Then,  we'll  go 
right  along  to  the  sheriff. ' ' 

They  kicked  their  ponies  lightly  into  a  trot  and 
came  to  the  Senator's  k'raal  before  the  noon 
hour.  Two  or  three  of  the  ranch  hands  loitered 
casually  out  to  the  road.  All  were  in  blue  over 
alls  and  shirt  sleeves  but  one;  and  he  was  in 
knickerbockers. 

"That's  the  foreman,  ask  him!" 

"  'Twould  oblige  me  t'  have  the  use  of  your 
telephone?" 


142  FEEEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

The  man  in  the  knickerbockers  tilted  his  hat 
at  a  rakish  angle,  stuck  a  tooth-pick  in  the  corner 
of  his  mouth,  put  his  thumbs  in  his  jacket  arm 
holes,  shot  Wayland  a  quick  look  of  questioning, 
grinned  at  the  old  man  and  nodded  towards  a 
white  pergola  standing  apart  from  the  veranda 
of  the  ranch  house. 

"Find  it  there, "  he  indicated,  "drop  a  nickel — 
then,  ring!" 

"Did  you  see  that  look?"  gritted  the  old  Brit 
isher  between  his  teeth,  as  the  fellow  sauntered 
away  with  elaborate  indifference. 

' t  Yes,  but  looks  don 't  go  with  a  jury. ' ' 

"Neck-tie  was  effective  with  the  likes  of  him 
in  my  day ! ' ' 

For  the  third  time,  Wayland  uttered  the  same 
sardonic  laugh.  What  was  happening  to  the  old 
Britisher  to  change  his  point  of  view? 

"I'll  go  on  down  to  the  Eiver  and  prepare 
grub. ' ' 

What  Wayland  was  thinking,  he  did  not  say; 
but  what  was  passing  in  the  brain  of  the  law- 
loving  old  Britisher  that  the  rakish  tilt  of  the 
hat,  the  insolent  angle  of  the  tooth-pick,  the 
spread  of  a  man's  thumbs  and  feet — could  break 
through  hide-bound  respect  for  law  and  elicit 
reference  to  the  court  of  the  old-time  neck-tie? 

At  the  Eiver,  the  Eanger  loosened  the  saddle 
girths  and  put  a  small  kettle  to  boil  above  a  fire 
of  cottonwood  chips  and  grass.  Then  he  took  out 
his  note  book  and  wrote  the  note  to  Eleanor 


THE  LAW  VEILS  ITSELF  143 

which  he  gave  to  one  of  the  road  gang  for  Calam 
ity.  The  note  said:  "We  are  setting  out  on  the 
Long  Trail  .  .  .  the  Long  Trail  this  Nation 
will  have  to  travel  before  Democracy  arrives 
.  .  .  the  trail  of  the  Man  behind  the  Thing 
.  .  .  the  Man  Higher  Up."  How  did  the 
Ranger  know  what  was  going  on  up  at  the  tele 
phone  in  the  pergola,  where  British  respect  for 
law  was  at  one  end  of  the  wire  and  the  handy 
man  of  the  Valley  at  the  other  ? 

There  was  no  bitterness  in  the  quizzical  smile 
with  which  he  awaited  the  old  man's  return;  for 
as  he  lay  back  on  the  ground  watching  the  fire 
burn  up,  the  letter  brought  again,  not  memory, 
but  consciousness  of  that  seal  to  service.  He 
wondered  half  vaguely  could  she  know,  could  she 
realize,  did  a  woman  ever  realize  what  her  love 
meant  to  a  man.  She  could  surely  never  have 
given  such  full  draughts  of  life,  of  wondrous  new 
revealing  consciousness,  unless  they  were  drink 
ing  together  from  the  same  perennial,  ever-new, 
ever-surprising  spring !  .  .  .  He  did  not  hear 
the  footsteps  till  the  old  man  spoke — 

"A  somehow — didna'  seem — to  get — them 
clear!  They  answered;  then — they  didna'  an 
swer!  Smelter  City  Herald — ye  said?  'Twas 
strange — 'twas  vera  strange — A  got  an  answer 
plain  asking  my  name — then  central  said  'ring 
off!  ring  off!  can't  get  them,  wire  out  of  order'!" 

This  time,  Wayland  did  not  laugh.  Had  not 
the  wires  been  out  of  order  since  first  he  began 


144  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

to  ring  the  bells  of  his  little  insignificant  place 
to  a  Nation's  alarm? 

They  ate  their  bannocks — 'Bocky  Mountain 
dead  shot'  Westerners  call  the  slap-jacks — in 
silence.  While  the  old  man  still  pondered  mazed 
and  dumb,  the  Eanger  dabbled  the  cups  and 
plates  in  the  Eiver  and  recinched  the  pack  sad 
dle,  the  little  mule  blowing  out  his  sides  and 
groaning  to  ease  the  girth,  the  bronchos  wisely 
eating  to  the  process  of  reharnessing.  The  Brit 
isher's  reverence  for  law  dies  hard.  Wayland 
saw  the  wrestle  and  kept  silent.  A  deep  low 
boom  rolled  dully  through  the  earth  in  smoth 
ered  rumblings  and  tremblings  like  distant  thun 
der. 

" What's  that,  Wayland?" 

"Only  the  snow  slides  loosened  by  the  noon- 
thaw  slithering  down  the  Pass  of  Holy  Cross;" 
and  somehow,  he  could  not  but  think  of  what  she 
had  said  .  *  .  the  law  of  the  snow  flake 
sculpturing  the  rocks. 

The  horses  cropped  audibly  over  the  grasses — 
waiting.  The  little  mule  looked  back — also  wait 
ing.  A  whelming-  impulse,  part  of  the  spirit  to 
drink  of  her  inspiration,  part  of  the  flesh  to  drink 
of  her  touch — came  over  him  to  ride  down  to 
the  ranch  house,  the  MacDonald  ranch  house,  to 
see  her — just  once  before  setting  out  on  the 
Long  Trail. 

"Well,"  he  said;  "which  way,  Mr.  Matthews?" 


THE  LAW  VEILS  ITSELF  145 

The  old  Britisher  moved  thoughtfully  towards 
his  broncho. 

" We'll  try  y'r  sheriff — at  least,  we'll  try  him 
first." 

And  again  the  Eanger  laughed. 

' '  Don 't  laugh,  man !  D '  y '  know  what  it  means 
when  men  are  driven  outside  the  line  of  law?" 

The  horses  waded  in  midstream  and  reached 
down  drinking,  champing  on  their  bits. 

4 1 Well — what  does  it  mean?" 

He  saw  the  blue  of  the  mountain  stream  swirl 
and  whirl  and  eddy  over  the  sun-dyed  pebbles, 
singing  the  law  of  the  far  mountain  snows. 

"God  knows,"  answered  the  old  man  slowly. 
"It  means  disrupture.  We  slew  our  kings  in 
olden  times;  but  ye  are  a  many  headed  king  in 
this  land!  It  means— perhaps,  ye  call  it  Anarchy 
to-day." 

The  yellow  noon-day  light  sifted  through  the 
cottonwoods  jewel-spangled  on  the  crystal  blue 
Eiver.  The  Eanger  always  knew  the  character 
of  the  mountains  from  the  Eiver :  silty  and  milky- 
blue  from  glaciers;  crystal  and  green-blue  from 
the  snow.  And  they  rode  away  up  the  Valley 
from  the  ranch  houses  towards  the  Pass,  out  be 
yond  the  bounds  of  the  National  Forests  with  the 
trees  marked  two  notches  and  one  blaze;  gradu 
ally  up  the  narrowing  trail  fringed  by  the  shiny 
laurel  bushes;  with  the  mountains  closing  closer 
and  the  spiced  balsam  odor  raining  on  the  air 


146  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

a  sifted  gold  dust  of  sunlight.  At  intervals,  came 
the  dull  rumble  of  the  snow  slide,  the  far  rever 
beration,  the  echo  of  the  law  of  the  snow  flake 
rolling  away  the  stone;  the  smash  of  the  great 
law  drama,  the  titans  behind  the  mountains. 

It  was  one  of  those  frequent  mountain  forma 
tions  where  a  Valley  seems  to  terminate  in  a 
blank  wall.  You  turn  a  buttress  of  rock,  and  you 
find  the  sheer  wall  opening  before  you  in  a  trail 
that  climbs  to  a  notch  on  the  sky  line  between 
forested  flanks.  The  notch  of  blue  is  a  Pass. 

"Anyway,  Mr.  Matthews,  we  are  splitting  the 
air,  now !  We  are  doing  more  than  sawing  air. ' ' 

They  had  put  their  horses  to  a  sharp  trot  along 
the  trail  winding  up  the  Eiver.  The  water  was 
gurgling  over  the  polished  pebbles  with  little  leaps 
and  glints  of  fire.  Presently,  the  mountains  had 
closed  behind  them.  The  Eiver  was  tumbling 
with  noisy  rush  in  a  succession  of  cascades,  and 
the  trail  wound  back  from  the  rocky  bank  through 
circular  flats  or  what  were  locally  known  as 
"bottoms.'' 

"Sheriff  live  this  way?"  shouted  Matthews; 
for  the  roar  of  the  little  stream  filled  the  canyon. 

"Has  a  ranch  at  the  foot  of  the  Pass." 

"It  won't  be  wasting  time,  anyway,"  said  the 
old  Britisher. 

Again,  Wayland  smiled.  If  it  would  not  be 
wasting  time;  then,  they  were  already  in  pursuit 
of  the  outlaws.  What  was  it  in  the  insolent  look 


THE  LAW  VEILS  ITSELF  147 

of  the  Senator's  ranch  hand  that  had  suddenly 
dashed  the  doughty  Briton's  reverence  for  the 
instrument  of  the  law! 

A  barb  wire  fence  tacked  to  spindly  cottonwood 
trees  marked  the  line  of  an  irregular  homestead; 
and  the  Eanger  swung  into  a  gate  extemporized 
from  barb  wire  on  two  adjustable  posts.  Behind 
the  gate,  stood  a  log  shack ;  on  the  windows,  cheap 
lace  curtains;  behind  the  lace  curtains,  a  vague 
movement  of  peeping  faces  and  a  querulous  ter 
magant  voice :  ' i  I  ain  't  a  goin '  to  have  you  mixed 
up  in  no  scrap;  so  there,  Dan  Flood!" 

Wayland  dismounted  and  knocked  on  the  door 
with  his  riding  stock.  It  opened  on  an  anaemic 
sulphur  face  with  blond  hair  screwed  in  curl 
papers  over  a  full  row  of  gold  headlights  where 
an  enterprising  dentist  had  engrafted  as  much  of 
Klondike  as  possible. 

"Sheriff  Flood  in?"  the  Eanger  raised  his  hat. 

"Oh,  how  j'  do,  Mr.  Wayland."  All  the  curl 
papers  nodded  like  clover  tops  in  the  wind,  while 
the  coy  brows  arched,  and  an  inviting  smile  played 
round  the  simpering  headlights.  "No,  he  ain't! 
Dan  ain't  in!"  The  curl  papers  nodded  again 
and  the  gold  teeth  simpered  again. 

"Is  he — home?"  The  word  home  came  out 
with  the  force  of  a  bullet. 

"No,  he  ain't  home!  Mr.  Flood  ain't  home! 
The  sheriff  was  called  'way!  Is  there  any  mes 
sage  ? ' ' 

Wayland   stood   back   and   watched   the   fray. 


148  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

The  old  man  gazed  full  at  the  frowsy  apparition 
in  the  doorway.  If  dagger  looks  could  have 
stabbed  her,  the  lady  would  have  dropped  dead 
stuck  full  of  as  many  daggers  as  a  cushion  is  of 
pins.  The  gold  headlights  suffered  eclipse  be 
hind  a  pair  of  tightly  perked  lips ;  and  one  hand 
darted  hold  of  the  door  knob. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  looking  fixedly  at  the  deep  V 
of  ash-colored  skin  where  the  lady  had  turned 
back  the  neck  of  her  pink  wrapper  in  imitation 
of  gowns  seen  in  the  Sunday  supplement  of  "The 
Smelter  City  Herald. "  "  There  was  murder  done 
on  the  Eim  Eocks  last  night!  There 's  festering 
bodies  lying  on  top  of  yon  Mesas !  'Tis  a  job  for 
the  sheriff,  not  for  an  outsider — " 

"Yes,  Sir,"  said  the  gold  headlights,  "I  think 
he's  gone  to  see  about  it." 

He  had  looked  her  slowly  over  again  from  the 
blondine  hair  and  the  ash-colored  V  of  unclean 
skin  and  waistless  slop  of  slattern  wrapper  to 
clock  work  stockings  and  high  heeled  slippers. 

"A  ha'  ma  doubts  he's  sprintin'  fr'  the  back 
door  this  minute!  Are  ye  the  sheriff's — 
woman?"  and  oddly  enough  the  lady  didn't  flush; 
but  the  faintest  gloss  came  over  the  saffron  skin 
— of  what?  It  was  the  same  nonchalant,  word 
less  insolence  that  had  played  in  the  eyes  of  the 
man  who  had  come  out  from  the  Senator's  ranch. 

"Yes,  Sir,  I'll  deliver  your  message  a'  right," 
flickered  the  headlights  reassuringly. 


THE  LAW  VEILS  ITSELF  149 

The  old  man  stood  stolidly  and  scorched  the 
lady's  eyes. 

"How  long  since  y'r  sheriff  thing  set  out? 
Did  he  break  loose  by  the  back  door?" 

" There  ain't  no  back  door,"  snapped  the  head 
lights  ;  and  the  front  door  slammed  in  their  faces. 

Wayland  burst  in  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"  'Tis  no  laughing  matter!  'Tis  bad  enough 
t'  depend  on  that  broken  reed  of  a  dastard  coward 
sheriff  hidin'  under  the  bed!  AVe  a  mind  to  go 
back  an'  have  him  oot;  but  that — pot  ash  pate — " 
what  else  the  old  man  called  her  was  more  truth 
ful  than  elegant  for  an  expurgated  age.  They 
replaced  the  post  of  the  barbed  wire  gate  in  its 
loop  and  mounted  their  horses. 

"Well,  Sir?"  asked  Wayland.  "I  don't  wish 
to  offend  your  British  sense  of  law;  but  which 
way  now?" 

The  old  man  left  the  reins  hanging  on  the 
broncho's  neck.  The  horses  began  cropping  the 
grass.  The  Eanger  was  fumbling  at  his  stirrup. 

"A'm  sore  puzzled,  Wayland!  'Tis  not  in  the 
blood  of  a  British  born  to  go  outside  law.  Y'r  no 
thinkin'  that;  are  y',  Wayland?" 

"I  am  saying  nothing!  The  law  protects  them 
in  their  lawlessness.  It  doesn't  protect  us  in  our 
lawfulness.  The  American  citizen  is  the  law 
maker.  There  is  only  one  thing  for  an  American 
citizen  to  do — get  to  work  and  enforce  his  laws — " 

"Then — God's  name,  Wayland,  go  ahead  and 


150  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

do  it !  Take  the  lead !  A  '11  follow !  This  trail  go 
behind  the  mountain !" 

"Yes,  it  brings  us  round  behind!  They  have 
the  start  of  us  by  three  hours;  but  they'll  camp 
to-night  somewhere  along  the  Lake  Behind  the 
Peak.  Beyond  that,  there  are  some  mighty  bad 
slides.  These  rains  have  loosened  snows. 
They'll  hardly  cross  the  slides  beyond  the  lake 
but  by  daylight.  If  we  can  reach  the  lake  to-day, 
we'll  have  a  chance  at  'em." 

"Wayland,  A'm  on  the  last  lap  of  my  trail! 
It  doesn't  matter  what  happens  to  me;  but  have 
you  thought  what  might  happen  when  we  catch 
up  on  them?  Those  fellows  are  out  to -kill.  We 
are  out  to  arrest.  Have  you  thought  what  that 
might  mean  at  close  quarters!" 

"It's  close  quarters  I'm  seeking,"  said  Way- 
land,  "though  it's  hardly  fair  to  drag  you  into 
the  fight.  All  I  want  is  a  man  as  a  witness  who 's 
got  red  blood  that  won't  turn  yellow.  This  Na 
tion  has  been  cowering  behind  the  line  of  law, 
while  the  looters  and  skinners  have  disarmed  our 
very  firing  line.  It's  time  somebody  risked  his 
neck  to  reverse  the  order — " 

"Git  epp,"  said  the  old  man  roughly  to  his 
broncho. 

The  little  pack  mule  took  to  the  trail  ears  back 
at  an  easy  lope ;  and  the  riders  set  off  up  the  Pass 
at  the  rocking-chair  trot  of  the  plains-horseman. 
Gradually,  the  mountains  crowded  closer,  in 
weather-stained  rock  walls,  with  a  far  whish  as 


THE  LAW  VEILS  ITSELF  151 

of  wind  or  waters  coming  up  from  the  canyon 
bottom ;  the  sky  overhead  narrowing  to  a  cleft  of 
blue  with  the  frayed  pines  and  hemlocks  hang 
ing  from  the  granite  blocks,  fragile  as  ferns 
against  the  sky.  You  looked  back;  the  rocks  had 
closed  to  a  solid  wall;  you  looked  down;  the  river 
filling  the  canyon  with  a  hollow  hush  had  dwarfed 
to  a  glistening  silver  thread  with  the  forest 
dwarfed  banks  of  moss.  It  was  a  sombre  world, 
all  the  more  shadowy  from  that  cleft  of  blue  over 
head  where  an  eagle  circled  with  lonely  cry. 

The  Pass  was  like  the  passage  of  birth  and 
death  from  life  to  larger  life.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  mountain  lay  the  sun-bathed  Valley  and 
the  Eidge  with  its  silver  cataracts  and  the  opal 
peak  with  the  glistening  snow  cross.  This  side, 
the  Mountain  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  became 
giant  beveled  masonry,  tier  on  tier,  criss-crossed 
and  scarred  by  the  iced  cataracts  of  a  billion  years 
— no  sound  but  the  raucous  scream  of  the  lone 
eagle,  the  hollow  hush  of  the  far  River,  the  tink 
ling  of  the  water-drip  freezing  as  it  fell.  Then, 
where  the  cleft  of  blue  smote  the  rocks  with  sun 
light,  the  doors  of  the  mountains  would  open 
again  to  larger  life  in  another  Valley. 

The  horses  were  no  longer  trotting.  They  were 
climbing  and  blowing  and  pausing  where  the  trail 
of  the  Pass  took  sharp  turns,  back  and  forward, 
up  and  up,  till  the  eagle  was  circling  below. 
Both  men  had  dismounted  and  were  walking  In 
dian  file  to  the  rear,  Wayland  carrying  his  own 


152  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

cased  rifle.  The  trail  was  now  running  along  the 
edge  of  an  escarpment  no  wider  than  a  saddle, 
sheer  drop  below,  sheer  wall  above. 

i 'How  would  they  come  out  from  the  gully  on 
this  trail,  Waylandf  I  have  been  watching  for 
the  tracks.  They're  not  ahead  of  us." 

61  Gully  ends  in  a  blind  wall  above.  As  I  make 
it,  they'd  push  their  nags  up  and  come  down  on 
the  Pass  trail  somewhere  below  the  precipice 
ahead.  We  can  take  our  time ;  I  have  been  watch 
ing.  There  are  no  tracks  ahead.  The  trail  above 
is  worse  than  this.  Devil  takes  care  of  his  own; 
or  they  would  have  broken  their  necks  long  ago 
coming  back  and  forward.  We'll  let  'em  go 
down  to  the  lake  first.  They'll  go  into  the  trap. 
It's  a  lake  mostly  ice  this  time  of  the  year. 
There's  an  old  punt  sometimes  used  by  hunters. 
It'll  take  them  an  hour  to  cross  with  their  horses. 
We'll  let  them  camp  at  the  lake.  We  could  pot 
them  there,  if  we  had  a  sheriff  worth  his  salt. ' ' 

"  'Tis  a  great  trail,  Wayland!  Minds  me  of 
my  days  building  bridges  in  the  Rockies !  'Tisn't 
just  a  matter  o'  courage  to  follow  these  precipice 
trails:  it's  temperament!  'Tis  something  in  the 
pit  o'  the  stomach!  A  mind  one  of  our  best 
engineers;  he  could  meet  Chinese  navvies  with 
their  knives  out:  couldn't  cross  one  of  the  preci 
pices  to  save  his  life  without  blinders  like  a  horse : 
we  had  to  blindfold  him  so  he  wouldn't  know  till 
he'd  crossed.  How  deep  do  you  call  it  here?" 

"  About  7,000  feet  drop,  I  think.     This  is  the 


THE  LAW  VEILS  ITSELF  153 

top  of  the  Pass.  We  go  down  after  we  leave  the 
precipice !  See — ?  the  horses  know  it !  They  are 
taking  their  top-turn  rest. ' ' 

The  two  men  glanced  below.  In  the  shadowed 
depths,  they  could  see  the  Eiver  tearing  down  a 
white  fume,  a  pantherine  thing  leaping — leap 
ing — ;  and  the  hollow  roar  of  water  filled  the 
canyon  with  a  quiver  that  was  tangible.  Far  be 
low,  the  eagle  flew  lazily,  lifting  and  falling  to 
the  throb  of  the  canyon  winds.  Suddenly,  the 
air  was  cut  by  a  piercing  whistle.  Both  men 
jumped. 

"It's  only  a  marmot."  The  Eanger  pointed 
over  his  shoulder  to  the  little  gray  beast  sitting 
on  the  face  of  the  rock.  "Curious  place,  this 
Pass !  There  is  an  echo  here — if  it  were  not  that 
we  don't  want  to  announce  ourselves,  I'd  let  you 
hear  it.  If  you  yell  or  sing,  you  can  hear  the 
thing  dancing  along  that  opposite  wall — Kind  of 
uncanny,  the  echo  voice,  in  the  mist  here  some 
times." 

But  the  whistle  of  the  marmot  had  also  startled 
the  horses.  The  tired  pack  mule  gave  a  hobbling 
jump  and  came  to  a  stand.  A  stone  no  larger 
than  a  horse-shoe  kicked  loose,  tottered  on  the 
edge,  and  went  bounding  over.  It  struck  the  tier 
of  rock  below  with  clattering  echo,  displaced  an 
other  stone  twice  its  size,  then  bounced — bounced 
• — and  a  slither  of  slaty  rock  the  size  of  a  house 


154  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

wrenched  out — shot  into  mid-air  with  crash  and 
sharp  clappering  echoes — Then  the  Pass  was 
filled  with  the  thundering  roll.  They  saw  it  sink 
— sink — sink  and  fade,  while  the  echo  still  rock- 
etted  amid  the  rock  tops — sink — sink— sink — no 
larger  than  a  spool  in  the  purple  shadows,  till  with 
a  plunge  it  disappeared. 

6  *  Whew,  it  would  be  going  if  one  went  over." 
The  old  man  mowed  the  sweat  from  his  forehead 
and  drew  a  breath. 

On  the  instant,  the  hollow  chasm  of  the  canyon 
split  to  the  crash  of  a  rifle  shot  that  rocketted 
and  quaked  and  repeated  in  splintering  echoes; 
and  a  bullet  pinged  at  Wayland 's  feet. 

"That's  splitting  the  air  for  you — Wayiand." 

"Drop  down,  Sir,"  urged  the  Eanger,  pulling 
the  old  frontiersman  to  shelter  of  the  upper  rocks. 
"They  have  come  out  above.  They  have  heard 
that  cursed  stone.  That  's  only  a  chance  shot  to 
learn  where  we  are.  They  can't  come  behind. 
They  have  got  to  go  down  ahead — " 

"And  the  fat's  in  the  fire;  for  my  rifle's  gone 
with  the  horse,"  deplored  the  old  man  woefully; 
for  mule  and  bronchos  had  galloped  along  the  trail 
with  the  clatter  of  a  cavalcade  through  the  canyon. 

Wayland  handed  the  old  man  his  own  rifle  and 
took  the  six  shooter  from  his  belt  beneath  the 
leather  coat. 

"They  won't  understand  this  pursuit  at  all," 
explained  Wayland.  "Sheriff  Flood  is  the  guar 
antee  of  safety  for  any  criminal  in  the  country 


THE  LAW  VEILS  ITSELF  155 

side.  They'll  think  it  a  citizens'  posse.  Where 
this  trail  comes  down  at  the  end  of  the  precipice 
is  a  crag.  Will  you  hide  behind  that,  sir?  I'll 
go  above  and  head  them  down.  I'm  not  asking 
you  to  risk  your  life.  They'll  not  see  you  till 
they  gallop  down. ' '  ^ 

"But  you  are  risking  your  own  life  if  you  go 
up?" 

"So  does  the  fellow  who  has  slipped  on  a 
banana  peel,"  said  Wayland. 


CHAPTEK  XIII 

THE    MAN    ON    THE   JOB 

The  two  men  proceeded  along  the  precipice 
trail  of  the  Pass.  The  shouting  river  below 
boisterous  from  the  full  flood  of  noon-day  thaw 
began  to  hush.  By  the  shadows,  the  Ranger 
knew  that  the  afternoon  was  waning.  The  echoes 
from  the  shot  still  rocked  in  sharp  crepitating 
knocks  as  of  stone  against  stone,  fainter  and 
fading.  Then  a  quiver  of  wind  met  their  faces. 
The  chasm  opened  to  the  fore  like  a  gate,  or  a 
notch  in  the  serrated  ridge  of  the  sky-line;  and 
the  precipice  trail  dropped  over  the  edge  of  the 
crag  to  the  scooped  hollow  of  a  slope  where  rock 
slide  or  avalanche  had  plowed  a  groove  in  the 
bevelled  masonry  of  the  precipice. 

"This  is  the  place,"  indicated  Wayland. 

From  the  shoulder  of  the  higher  slope  came  a 
little  narrow  indurated  trail  scarcely  a  hand's 
width,  marked  by  the  cleft  foot-prints  of  a  mount 
ain  goat.  Where  the  path  came  down  to  the 
main  trail  of  the  Pass,  jutted  a  huge  rock  left 
high  and  dry  on  its  slide  to  the  bottom  of  the 
gorge. 

156 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  JOB  157 

"Keep  behind  the  other  side  of  that,  sir! 
They  can't  possibly  see  you." 

"How  do  you  know  that  trail  comes  from  the 
Eidge  gully!  Looks  to  me  like  a  goat  track. " 

"Because  I  built  it!  You  can  see  the  N.  F. 
trail  sign — one  notch  and  one  blaze  on  that  scrub 
juniper.  Up  on  the  Mesas,  we  were  off  the 
Forests.  Here,  we  are  back  on  them.  You  may 
not  know  it,  sir;  but  this  canyon  is  part  of  the 
region  Moyese  wants  withdrawn  for  homesteads. 
You  could  homestead  a  reservoir  for  Smelter 
City  here — pay  a  German  or  a  Swede  three-hun 
dred  to  sit  on  this  site — then  sell  for  a  couple 
of  million  to  the  Smelter  City  gang.  They  would 
get  the  suckers  in  the  East  to  buy  the  bonds  to 
pay  for  it.  A  fellow  in  the  Sierras  located  a 
hundred  water  power  sites  that  way." 

The  old  Britisher  was  not  following  the 
Banger's  reasoning  in  the  least. 

"Then,  if  we  are  really  on  the  National  Forests, 
that  is  your  territory,  and  we  have  the  legal  right 
to  make  an  arrest?" 

Wayland  laughed  outright.  If  you  don't  see 
why,  then  you  do  not  know  the  stickling  of  a 
Briton's  sense  of  law  and  a  Scotchman's  con 
science.  Matthews  took  up  his  station  behind  the 
rock  that  abutted  on  the  trail. 

He  saw  the  Eanger  hasten  back  along  the  face 
of  the  precipice,  stop  where  the  rock  offered 


158     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

foothold  and  begin  slowly  climbing  almost  ver 
tically.  At  first,  it  was  going  up  the  tiers  of  a 
broken  stone  stair.  Then,  the  weathered  ledge 
gave  place  to  slant  shale.  He  saw  Wayland  dig 
his  heels  for  grip,  grasp  a  sharp  edge  overhead, 
and  hoist  himself  to  the  overhanging  branch  of  a 
recumbent  pine;  then,  scramble  along  the  fallen 
trunk  to  a  ledge  barely  wide  enough  for  footing. 
Along  this,  he  cautiously  worked,  face  in,  hand 
over  hand  from  rock  block  to  rock  block,  sticking 
fingers  among  the  mossed  crevices,  fumbling  the 
pebbles  from  the  slate  edges,  and  so  round  out  of 
sight  behind  a  flying  buttress  of  masonry  and  back 
in  view  again  a  tier  higher. 

Just  once,  the  watcher  felt  a  tremor  for  the 
rash  climber.  Wayland 's  head  was  on  a  level 
with  the  crest  of  another  ledge,  his  face  to  the 
rock,  his  left  hand  gripping  a  shoot  of  mountain 
laurel,  his  right  groping  the  upper  rocks.  The 
old  man  saw  the  shrub  jerk  loose,  moss,  roots 
and  all — he  held  his  breath  for  the  coming  crash 
— it  was  all  over.  Wayland 's  left  arm  flung  out 
to  ward  off  the  spatter  of  small  stones;  then, 
the  right  arm  had  clutched  the  spindly  bole  of  a 
creeping  juniper — his  body  lurched  out,  hung, 
swayed,  lifted;  and  the  Eanger  disappeared 
among  the  shrubbery  of  the  upper  trail. 

The  old  man  took  a  deep  breath. 

"And  this  is  the  Man  on  the  Job,"  he  said.  He 
drew  behind  his  shelter  and  waited.  "The  same 
breed  o'  men  after  all,  in  different  harness." 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  JOB  159 

He  had  not  noticed  before,  but  there,  ahead, 
where  the  black  chasm  of  the  Pass  opened  por 
tals  to  the  sunny  blue  of  another  valley,  lay  a 
.lake,  the  Lake  Behind  the  Peak,  spangled  with 
light,  marbled  like  onyx  or  malachite,  with  the 
sheen  of  a  jewel.  Almost  at  his  feet  below,  the 
near  end  of  it  lay.  He  could  have  tossed  a  peb 
ble  into  it,  seven-thousand  feet  below,  where  the 
white  foaming  river  came  ramping  through  a 
great  pile  of  moraine  that  dammed  up  this  end  of 
the  Pass  to  the  width  of  a  bridle  trail.  The  out 
laws  would  have  to  cross  the  lake  to  escape  from 
the  Pass ;  and  almost,  he  thought,  he  saw  the  old 
punt  at  the  far  end,  which  Wayland  had  said 
hunters  sometimes  used. 

The  white  butterflies  flitted  past  his  hiding 
place  out  to  the  light  of  the  sun.  The  eagle  was 
soaring  strong-winged,  swerving  and  lifting  and 
falling  in  an  insolence  of  languid  power.  The 
silent  Pass  quivered  to  the  throb  of  waters. 

But  what  was  doing  with  the  Banger?  Not 
a  sound  came  from  the  upper  trail  but  the  tinkle 
of  hidden  springs  down  the  rocks.  He  knew  if 
he  uttered  a  shout,  the  echo  would  take  up  his 
call.  An  hour  passed:  two  hours.  Ghost 
shadows  came  creeping  into  the  canyon.  The 
butterflies  had  fluttered  out  to  the  blue  portal 
where  the  rocks  opened  doors  to  the  sun.  The 
rampant  roar  of  the  river  was  quieting  to  the 
hollow  hush.  The  old  man  rose,  walked  along 
the  precipice,  came  back  to  his  shelter,  sat,  stood 


160  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

up,  examined  the  rifle,  looked  ahead  where  the 
horses  had  wandered  on,  fidgeted,  and  bemoaned 
the  years  that  prevented  pursuit  up  the  rock 
face.  He  knew  by  the  light  and  the  hush  that  it 
must  be  almost  five  o  'clock. 

And  at  five  o'clock  in  the  ranch  house  back  in 
the  Valley,  Eleanor  was  lying  in  her  room  with 
her  face  buried  in  Wayland's  note,  praying  as 
only  the  young  pray,  with  the  worst  and  the  best 
of  their  nature  in  the  prayer ;  for  where  such  love 
comes,  all  goes  into  the  incense  of  the  fire  that 
goes  up  from  the  altar — the  best  and  the  worst 
of  the  inmost  heart:  an  apotheosis  of  "give-me" 
and  an  utter  abandonment  of  i  i  let-me-give. " 
By  and  by,  when  we  grow  older,  we  leave  both 
the  "give  me"  and  the  "let-me-give"  to  God. 

The  old  man  knew  it  must  be  almost  six  o  'clock ; 
for  the  light  came  aslant  the  gap  and  the  chill 
of  the  upper  snow  crept  down  from  the  mount 
ain.  A  pretty  business  this,  it  seemed  to  him: 
twenty  miles  back  of  beyond;  horses  sent  on  at 
random  ahead;  a  gang  of  murderers  in  hiding 
above — Matthews  walked  boldly  along  the  preci 
pice  trail,  saw  the  eagle  below  circling,  still  cir 
cling;  heard  a  hawk  skirr  and  scold  from  a  dead 
branch — Then,  he  deliberately  pointed  his  voice 
to  the  rock  wall  of  the  echo  across  the  gorge 
and  let  out  a  yell  that  split  the  welkin — A 
thousand — ten  thousand — multitudinous  eldritch 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  JOB  161 

laughing  echoes  came  jibbering  and  mumbling  and 
giggling  and  shrilling  back  from  the  rock,  filling 
the  Pass  with  chattering,  knocking  sounds  that 
skipped  from  stone  to  stone. 

Instantly,  a  shot,  a  shout,  a  bang,  the  rocking 
crash  of  echoes — mixed  with  ear-splitting,  rocket- 
ting  shots — a  crunch  of  feet — the  old  man  dashed 
to  the  hiding  of  his  crag.  A  spurt  of  gravel 
mid  showers  of  dust  and  snorting  of  horses — Not 
on  the  trail  at  all  but  almost  over  his  back,  slith 
ered  and  slid  and  bunched  horses  and  men,  pell 
mell,  the  white  horse  leading  the  way  braced 
back  on  its  haunches,  the  fellow  in  the  yellow 
slicker  rumbling  a  volcano  of  lurid  curses — The 
outlaws  had  not  followed  the  goat  track  at  all 
but  jumped  sheer  from  the  higher  slope  to  the 
Pass  trail. 

Shouting  "Stop! — Stop! — I  command  you  in 
the  name  of  the  State  to  stop — !"  the  old  man 
sprang  to  the  middle  of  the  trail  flourishing  the 
rifle  above  his  head. 

"State  be  damned,"  yelled  the  fellow  in  the 
oil-skin  slicker.  Never  pausing,  turning  only  to 
shoot  at  wild  random,  the  outlaws  had  tumbled 
— stumbled — slid  down  the  slatey  slope  for  the 
lake. 

There  was  the  pound — pound — the  huffing  of 
saddle  leather — and  a  horse  came  spurring  along 
the  Pass  trail  at  reckless  gallop.  The  old  man 
flung  himself  athwart — a  rider  in  sheep-skin 


162  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

leggings,  hat  far  back,  came  round  the  rock  at 
break  neck  pace  looking  over  his  shoulder  as  if 
pursued — One  jump — the  old  frontiersman  had 
the  horse's  bridle!  The  shock  threw  the  beast's 
hind  legs  clear  over  the  edge  jarring  the  rider 
almost  to  the  animal's  neck.  Next — the  old  man 
was  looking  down  the  barrel  of  the  outlaw's 
big  repeater — With  a  mighty  swing,  Matthews 
clubbed  his  rifle  on  the  other's  wrist.  He  might 
have  scruples  as  to  law  and  conscience;  but  he 
knew  how  and  when  and  where  to  hit,  did  the 
Briton  with  the  Scotch-Canadian  blood.  Also 
he  knew  when  to  let  go — There  was  a  flash — 
the  rock  splintering  crash  of  echo,  the  whinny 
ing  scream  and  leap  of  the  horse  shot  by  the 
falling  weapon — Eider  and  beast  hurtled  back 
wards,  the  man's  foot  caught  to  one  stirrup — 
There  was  the  crackling  of  slate  and  shale — the 
gash  and  rasp  and  wrench  of  loosening  rock 
masses  sliding — down — down — down  and  yet 
down,  with  knocking  echoes;  with  laughter  of 
terrified  scream  from  the  echo  rock  across  the 
gorge — pound  and  plunge  from  ledge  to  ledge 
— the  horse's  body  turning  twice  as  it  struck 
and  bounced  out — a  cloud  of  dust — the  shout, 
the  blasphemy,  the  cry  of  rage,  then  the  shrill 
scream  of  death  terror  that  echoed  and  echoed 
— The  old  man  looked  down!  There  was  a 
pounding  of  the  stones — a  faint  far  rebound  and 
the  darkness  below  swallowed  over  a  fading 
swirl  at  the  bottom  of  the  canyon.  He  heard, 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  JOB  163 

lie  thought,  he  heard  the  engulfing  .gurgle  of 
the  waters,  while  the  shrill  scream  still  jibber ed 
and  faded  along  the  echo  ledge. 

"By  violence  ye  lived — by  violence  ye  die — 
over  the  precipice  ye  go  as  ye  sent  the  mangled 
boy  to  the  bloody  death  I" 

Then  the  Eanger  was  tumbling  down  the  goat 
track  in  a  slither  of  shale. 

"Come  on — that  was  well  done,  sir!  Wish 
we'd  sent  them  all  over  to  the  very  bottom  of 
Hell—!  I'd  stalked  that  fellow  apart  from  the 
others  when  you  signaled — come  on — we'll  catch 
the  rest  at  the  lake — there's  a  fellow  wounded 
— you  must  have  nipped  one  when  you  shot  this 
morning — join  me  at  the  lake,"  and  leaving  Mat 
thews  to  follow  by  the  foot  trail,  the  delirious 
Eanger  went  tearing  exultant  down  the  stone 
slide.  Water-muffled  shots  sounded  from  the 
lake.  Wayland  paused  in  his  head-long  descent. 
The  five  outlaws  were  shoving  the  punt  from  the 
shore  with  the  bronchos  swimming  in  tow.  The 
stolen  wagon  horses,  lay  shot  on  the  shore.  One 
of  the  outlaws  was  being  supported  by  the  others. 
It  was  the  man  in  the  yellow  slicker. 

A  great  wave  went  over  Wayland  of  something 
he  had  never  before  known.  It  pounded  at  his 
temples.  It  set  his  heart  going  in  a  force  pump. 
It  blew  his  lungs  out,  and  set  the  whip  cord  mus 
cles  itching  to  go — to  go — he  wanted  to  shout  with 
joy  of  power — power  that  pursued  and  caught  and 


164  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

crushed — and  trembled  with  overplus  of  intoxi 
cated  strength — He  knew  if  he  could  lay  his  hand 
on  Crime  at  that  moment  he  could  crush  the  life 
out  of  the  thing's  throat;  and  there  was  a  parch- 
edness  that  was  not  thirst,  a  tingling  to  clinch  that 
Criminal  Thing  menacing  the  Nation,  to  clinch 
and  strangle  it  to  a  death  not  honored  in  the  code 
of  white-corpuscled  anaemic  study-chair  reform 
ers. 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  the  other  came  limping 
down  to  the  shore,  "I  didn't  think  there  could 
be  enough  of  the  savage  in  me  to  enjoy  a  man 
hunt." 

The  old  Briton  looked  queerly  at  the  young  fel 
low. 

"A'm  beginnin' — ,"  he  said  slowly,  "A'm  be- 
ginnin'  to  understand  y'r  lynch  law  in  this  coun 
try — an'  the  why" 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?"  asked  Wayland, 
too  excited  to  notice  the  other's  abstraction. 

"A'm  beginnin'  to  understand  if  y'  monkey 
with  the  law  much  longer  in  this  land,  the  whole 
Nation  will  go  locoed  like  you,  Wayland — with  a 
blood  thirst  for  righteousness — a  white  passion 
for  the  square  deal — an'  God  pity — that  day!" 

The  fugitives  had  reached  the  far  shore  of  the 
lake,  landed  and  were  riding  off  when  a  second 
thought  seemed  to  bring  one  man  back  to  the 
water's  edge.  He  stooped,  heaved  up  a  rock, 
threw  it  through  the  bottom  of  the  old  punt. 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  JOB  165 

"  You  '11  have  to  do  better  than  that  to  keep 
me  from  crossing, "  said  Wayland. 

The  fellow  was  aiming  his  rifle.  Wayland  and 
Matthews  jumped  behind  the  big  hemlocks. 

"He's  fulling  a  skin  bag  wi'  water." 

"Then,  they  intend  to  cross  the  Desert, "  in 
ferred  Wayland;  "but  they'll  have  to  go  farther 
to  slip  me." 

One  of  the  riders  was  scanning  back  with  a  field 
glass. 

"Looking  for  number  six — Of  all  the  colossal 
effrontery — they  are  actually  going  to  speak." 

The  fellow  nearest  shore  lowered  his  rifle  and 
trumpeted  both  hands. 

"Speak  louder — can't  hear  ye."  Matthews 
had  gone  to  the  edge  of  the  lake.  The  answer 
came  faint  and  muffled. 

* '  Where 's — our — pardner —  1 ' ' 

"Hold  up  y'r  hands — all  five,"  roared  back 
Matthews. 

The  arms  of  all  but  the  hurt  man  went  above 
heads,  hands  facing. 

"Y'll  find  y'r  man's  carcass  in  the  bloody  mess 
where  ye  sent  the  sheep — !  d'  y' — see  yon  eagle? 
— 'Tis  pickin'  his  bones — "  roared  Matthews 
through  funnelled  palms;  and  both  jumped  back 
to  the  shelter  of  the  hemlocks.  The  outlaws  drew 
together  to  confer. 

"They  don't  believe  us,"  said  Wayland. 
"They'll  camp  in  the  timber  over  there  for  the 
night  and  wait.  All  right,  my  friends!  You'll 


166  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

not  have  to  wait  long;  no  longer  than  it  takes 
you,  sir,  to  find  our  pack  mule  and  the  stray 
bronchs,  while  I  build  a  raft.  We  can't  cross 
the  lower  end  for  the  moraine;  and  we  can't 
cross  the  upper  end  for  the  ice;  and  it's  too  cold 
to  risk  swimming." 

Matthews  had  headed  the  horses  and  pack  mule 
back  from  an  open  glade  and  hobbled  their  fore 
feet.  Then  Wayland  began  chopping  down  small 
trees.  They  saw  the  figures  of  the  outlaws 
against  the  twilight  of  the  gap  ride  away  from 
the  far  margin  of  the  lake.  Then  only  did  the 
Eanger  build  a  little  fire  behind  the  biggest  hem 
locks,  an  Indian's  tiny  chip  fire,  not  "the  big 
white-man's  blaze."  On  this,  they  cooked  their 
supper,  lake  trout  hauled  out  while  they  waited, 
and  flap  jacks,  with  a  tin  plate  for  a  frying  pan. 

"Anyway,"  said  the  Eanger  wiping  the  smoke 
tears  from  his  eyes,  "the  smoke  keeps  off  the 
mosquitoes." 

"Mosquitoes,  pah!  That  shows  y're  Yale  for 
all  y'r  good  work  this  day!  A  have  no  seen 
one  yet." 

Wayland 's  answer  was  to  light  his  pipe.  "It's 
either  bear's  grease,  or  smoke  between  bites,"  he 
laughed. 

They  had  unsaddled  horses  and  were  sitting 
on  a  log  watching  the  animals  crop  through  the 
deep  grasses. 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  JOB  167 

The  frontiersman  uttered  a  sigh.  "  'Tis  like  a 
taste  of  the  good  old  days,  the  days  well  nigh  gone 
for  ever;  the  smell  of  the  bark  fire;  an'  th'  tang 
of  the  kinnikinick;  an'  the  cinnamon  cedars;  and 
the  air  like  champagne;  an'  the  stars  prickin' 
the  crown  o'  the  hoary  old  peaks  like  diamonds; 
an'  the  little  waves  lappin'  an'  lavin'  an'  whis- 
perin'  an'  tellin'  of  the  woman  y'  luve.  An' 
care?  Care,  man?  There  wasna'  a  care  heavier 
than  dandelion  down.  'Twas  sleep  like  a  deep 
drink,  an'  up  an'  away  in  the  mornin',  chasin' 
a  young  man's  hopes  to  the  end  o'  the  Trail! 
A  suppose  th'  Almighty  meant  t'  anchor  men, 
or  He  wouldna'  permit  the  buildin'  of  toons! 
Once  A  was  in  New  York!  A  did  na'  see  but 
one  patch  o'  sunlight  twenty  stories  overhead! 
Th'  car  things  screeched  an'  rulled  an'  the  folks 
— the  wimmen  wi'  awfu'  stern  wheeler  hats, 
an'  the  men — hurry  in' — hurryin'! — Wayland,  d' 
they  get  it?  There's  only  twenty-four  hours  in 
a  day — they  can't  catch  any  more  by  hurryin' 
— what  are  they  hurryin'  for!  Do  they  get  it — 
what  they're  hurryin'  for?  Do  they  get  any 
where?  D'  they  sit  down  joyous  at  night?  A 
heard  some  laugh — It  was  not  joyous!  Do  they 
get  anything  down  there  in  the  awfu'  heat?" 

Wayland  laughed.  "I  don't  know,"  he  said. 
4 'Care  isn't  light  as  dandelion  fluff!  I'll  bet  on 
that." 

The  roar  of  waters  below  the  moraine  soft 
ened  and  quieted.  There  was  a  chorus  of  little 


168  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

waves  lipping  and  whispering  among  the  reeds. 
A  whole  aeon  of  resinous  sunbeams  breathed 
their  essence  through  the  dark  from  the  spicy 
evergreens.  One  need  not  attempt  to  guess  of 
what  Wayland  was  thinking.  He  had  forgotten 
his  companion's  presence  till  the  old  man  spoke. 

"A  suppose,  Wayland,  you  are  only  one  of  an 
army  of  kiddie  boys  on  the  job  out  here?" 

Wayland  absently  roused  himself. 

"Land  Service  and  Eeclamation  men  have 
tougher  jobs  and  less  glory.  All  we  have  to  do 
is  sit  tight  and  it's  a  pretty  good  place  to  sit 
tight  in — this  out-door  world.  Different  with 
the  other  fellows!  They're  hamstrung  by  the 
red  tape  of  office,  or  blackguarded  by  some  pea 
nut  politician  who  is  scoring  an  opponent! 
There  was  Walker  down  at  Durango,  shot  ex 
amining  a  coal  fraud.  He  was  a  Land  Office 
man ;  and  his  murderers  have  not  even  been  pun 
ished.  Then,  there  were  the  two  chaps,  who 
ran  the  rapids  before  the  Gunnison  Tunnel  could 
be  built;  though  that's  been  exaggerated  with  a 
lot  of  magazine  hog-wash  to  make  a  fellow  sick ! 
Biggest  job  there  was  the  engineer's  work.  Do 
you  know  he  drove  that  six  mile  tunnel  from  both 
ends  and,  when  the  two  ends  met,  they  were  not 
two  inches  off!  Hog-wash  and  dish-water  hacks 
spread  themselves  in  the  magazines  all  over  those 
chaps  running  the  rapids !  You've  run  ten  times 
worse  rapids,  yourself,  on  Saskatchewan  and 
MacKenzie  hundreds  .of  times.  Yet  .those  chaps 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  JOB  169 

< — not  one  of  them — noted  the  wonder  of  a  tun 
nel  driven  from  both  ends  coming  out  exactly 
even.  Why,  the  poor  ignorant  foreign  workmen 
cried  when  they  met  from  both  ends,  got  hold 
of  one  fellow's  wrist  through  the  mud  wall  and 
pulled  him  through  bodily,  cried  like  kids  at  the 
victory  of  it!  Your  town  hack  didn't  know  what 
it  meant  to  be  a  sand  hog  under  ground  for  years 
and  come  through  to  daylight  like  that.  The 
ignorant  foreigner  knew.  I  guess  a  good  dozen 
of  'em  had  sacrificed  their  lives  to  the  work. 
They  knew  the  quiet  engineer  fellow  had  con 
quered  the  earth;  and  that  fellow  doesn't  get  the 
salary  of  a  Wall  Street  stenographer — a  way 
Uncle  Sam  has.  They'd  give  such  a  man  a  title 
and  a  fifty  thousand  a  year  pension  in  England  or 
Germany. 

4  *  Then,  there  was  Fessenden,  unearthed  a  lot 
of  fraud  in  Oregon  and  got  himself  crucified — 
got  the  bounce;  had  broken  his  health  in  that 
sort  of  thing;  got  fired  because  he  proved  up 
that  some  smug  politicians  had  caused  the  death 
of  an  old  couple  by  jumping  their  homestead 
claim  and  driving  them  to  penury.  Then,  there 
was  Carrington.  He  was  on  the  Desert  Kecla- 
mation  Project;  took  his  bride  in  on  their  honey 
moon  ;  hundreds  of  miles  from  the  railroad.  She 
was  delicate — lungs;  poor  fellow  thought  per 
haps  camp  life  would  cure  her.  She  died  there 
in  the  heat.  Two  or  three  of  the  men  gave  up 
their  jobs  to  help  bring  the  body  out."  Way- 


170  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

land  paused,  lost  in  thought.  "They  got  the 
body  out  all  right ;  but,  the  horror  of  it,  Carring- 
ton  went  off  his  head!  Know  an  engineering 
chap  tramped  the  Sierras  for  a  hundred  miles 
dogged  by  a  spotter  from  one  of  the  railroads — 
but  what's  the  use  of  talking  about  it?  These 
things  have  to  be  done;  and  these  are  the  men 
on  the  job." 

"The  Men  on  the  Job,"  slowly  repeated  Mat 
thews,  "the  men  we  make  earls  and  premiers 
of  in  Britain;  but  who  of  your  big  public  cares 
one  jot?  Time  you  wakened  up  as  a  Nation." 
'  "You  are  using  almost  the  same  words  as 
Moyese.  He  says  the  public  doesn't  care  a 
damn,  wouldn't  raise  a  hand  to  stand  for  the 
rights  of  one  of  us,  pays  us  less  than  dagoes  earn. 
I  guess  Moyese  doesn't  understand  our  point 
of  view,  can't  take  in  why  we  keep  at  it." 

The  wind  came  through  the  trees  a  phantom 
harper.  The  little  waves  lapped  and  whispered. 
The  pine  needles  clicked  pixy  castanets;  and  the 
moon  beams  sifted  through  the  trees  a  silver 
dust. 

"Why  do  you?  Why  do  you  keep  on  the  job?" 
asked  the  old  man. 

"Hanged  if  I  know,"  answered  Wayland  un 
comfortably. 

"A  saw  a  man  on  the  job  to-day  risk  his  life 
twice  and  think  no  more  about  it  than  if  he  had 
been  out  for  a  walk.  If  a  man  in  England,  if  a 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  JOB  171 

man  in  Germany,  if  a  man  in  Italy,  yes  by 
thunder,  Wayland,  if  a  man  on  the  job  in  pagan 
Turkey  had  done  what  you  did  to-day,  he'd  be 
given  a  V.  C.  accordin'  to  the  Turk,  and  a  title 
and  a  pension  for  life." 

"I  don't  despair  of  a  cross  myself,  when 
Moyese  hears  what  happened  to-day.  It'll  be  a 
double  cross  with  a  G.  B.;  but,  speaking  of  cross, 
as  we  have  to  cross  the  lake,  don't  you  think 
you'd  better  snatch  a  little  sleep?" 

And  so  the  two  men,  one  representing  the 
chivalry  of  the  old  West,  the  other  the  chivalry 
of  the  new,  stretched  out  to  sleep  with  coats  for 
pillows,  while  the  flood-waters  went  singing 
through  the  stones,  and  the  little  waves  came  lip 
ping  and  whispering,  and  the  low  boom  of  the 
snow  slides  rolled  through  the  chambered  hol 
lows  of  canyon  and  gorge.  Absurd,  wasn't  it, 
but  the  Eanger  was  not  dreaming  about  the  bev 
elling  trowel  of  the  titan  mountain  gods!  He 
went  to  sleep  dreaming  of  the  star  visible  from 
the  other  side  of  the  Holy  Cross,  dreaming 
dreams  that  men  and  women  have  dreamed  since 
time  began;  of  drinking,  drinking,  and  drinking 
yet  again,  of  life  and  love  and  blessedness  from 
the  fount  of  human  lips;  of  the  seal  that  should 
be  the  seal  to  service,  not  to  self;  of  the  gates 
ajar  to  a  new  life  like  the  notch  of  sky  where 
the  rocks  of  the  Pass  opened  portals  to  the  blue 
valley.  Would  he  have  dreamed  less  joyously  if 


172  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

he  had  known  that  the  portals  of  the  "Pass  led 
to  the  avalanche  and  the  desert  and  the  alkali 
death?  Who  shall  say  that  love  did  not  pay  the 
toll?  And  in  him  rioted  the  savagery  of  the 
fighter  who  wanted  to  seize  his  foe  by  the  throat. 


CHAPTEE  XIV 

ON   THE    GAME   TKAIL 

The  dull  boom  of  a  snow-cornice  tumbling  over 
some  high  cliff  on  the  far  side  of  the  lake  awak 
ened  the  Eanger  to  the  chill  darkness  of  mount 
ain  night  just  before  dawn.  The  moon  had  sunk 
behind  the  sky-line  of  the  peaks;  and  the  little 
lake  laving  among  the  reeds  lay  inky  in  the 
shadow  of  the  heavy  mist. 

Wayland  listened.  The  deep  breathing  of  the 
horses  round  the  ashes  of  the  mosquito  smudge 
guided  him  across  to  saddles.  He  placed  sad 
dles,  pack  trees  and  provisions  on  the  raft. 
Then,  he  wakened  the  old  man  and  pulled  the 
grunting  horses  to  their  feet.  A  little  riffle,  half 
wind,  half  light,  stirred  the  lake  mist,  revealing 
glare  patches  of  snow  reflection  in  the  water. 

"Hoh!  man,  but  y'r  old  peaks  have  a  nip  in  the 
air  at  three  in  the  morninM"  Matthews  came 
down  to  the  raft  chaffing  his  hands.  " That's  a 
job  worthy  a  woodsman,"  he  observed,  holding 
the  halter  reins  while  the  Kanger  got  a  couple  of 
long  poles. 

A  dozen  saplings  had  been  mortised  to  a 
couple  of  cottonwoods. 

173 


174  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

"They  may  take  water;  but  they'll  not  sink; 
and  they'll  not  tip,"  declared  Wayland. 

Eeeds  and  willows  had  been  used  in  place  of 
nails.  Two  or  three  of  the  logs  were  spliced  to 
grip  the  end  cottonwoods  firmly.  The  two  men 
stepped  on  the  raft. 

"Why  didn't  you  go  round  the  upper  end?" 

"Ice,"  answered  Wayland. 

"Too  deep  for  poling  in  the  middle?"  asked 
Matthews. 

"That's  why  I'm  going  to  creep  along  shore." 

"If  ull  keep  y'  in  the  shadows." 

With  a  prod  of  his  pole,  Wayland  shoved  off, 
and  the  frontiersman  lengthened  out  the  leading 
lines  for  the  horses.  The  Eanger  smiled  whimsi 
cally  to  find  the  reverse  side  of  Holy  Cross  peak, 
up-side  down  in  the  water,  and  he  set  to  figuring 
out  what  sort  of  triangular  lines  thought-waves 
must  follow  to  connect  his  thought  of  that  peak 
etched  in  the  bottom  of  the  lake  with  her  thought 
on  the  other  side  of  a  peak  up  in  the  sky. 

"Steady,  man!  Slow  up!  There's  a  fallen 
tree  with  its  rump  stuck  ashore!  A'  don't  want 
to  warp  ye  in  by  snaggin'  round;  an'  that  mule 
brute  is  thinkin'  o'  sittin'  down." 

The  bronchos  had  plunged  to  the  cold  dip  with 
deep  grunts,  but  the  mule  braced  his  legs  and 
brayed  at  the  morning.  The  frontiersman  said 
things  between  set  teeth  that  might  have  been 
objurgations  to  the  soul  of  Satan  or  the  race  of 


ON  THE  GAME  TRAIL  175 

mules.  Wayland  shoved  on  the  pole.  ,  The  mule 
pulled.  The  logs  of  the  raft  began  to  creak. 

"Look  out,  sir,  we're  splitting!  Let  that  dog- 
gon  brute  go — " 

And  the  raft  swerved  out,  the  horses  swim 
ming,  the  freed  mule  plunging  along  the  wooded 
shore,  Wayland  thrusting  his  long  pole  deep, 
almost  to  his  hand-grip,  to  find  bottom. 

11  There's  a  nasty  under  current  from  the  upper 
river,"  he  said. 

"Let  her  go,  there — !  let  her  go  t'  th'  current 
* — tack  her  an'  the  current  wull  swerve  ye  int' 
the  other  side!  More  men  lose  their  lives  by 
poling  too  hard  than  lettin'  go!  Catch  the  cur 
rent  and  let  her  go. ' ' 

The  old  man  had  twisted  the  halter  ropes  un 
der  his  feet.  He  seized  a  pole  and  swerved  the 
craft  to  the  current,  pointing  in  to  the  other  side. 
They  could  hear  the  roar  of  the  wild  mountain 
stream  pouring  a  maelstrom  down  from  the 
glare  ice  and  snow  of  the  upper  meadows.  The 
next  plunge  of  the  pole  missed  bottom.  There 
was  a  yielding  creak  of  logs.  The  raft  poised, 
and  spun  round. 

"Let  her  go,  man!  We'll  wriggle  her  in  be 
low!" 

"Then  loose  your  halter  ropes,  they're  pulling 
us  round." 

They  tossed  the  ropes  free.  Wayland  waved 
his  pole  to  head  the  bronchos  across.  They 


176  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

heard  the  mule  squealing  at  the  head  of  the  lake. 

"She  can't  sink — wriggle  her  round,  Way- 
land  1" 

The  raft  spun  twice  to  the  under-pull,  took  an 
inch  or  two  of  water,  and  swirled  into  the  quiet 
shadows  of  the  far  shore. 

"Minds  me  of  that  story  of  Napoleon !  Do  you 
carry  bridges  in  y'r  pockets,  too,  Wayland?" 
asked  the  old  man,  as  the  Banger  gave  a  long 
prod  that  sent  the  raft  grating  ashore. 

"What  story ?"  asked  Wayland. 

"Oh,  Boney  came  to  a  river  too  deep  for  swim 
ming  cavalry.  General  ordered  engineer  fellow 
to  get  'em  across!  Man  began  to  draw  maps. 
When  he  came  to  Napoleon  with  his  blue  print 
plans,  he  found  a  common  soldier  fellow  had  pon- 
tooned  'em  all  across!" 

"Did  the  big  fellow  get  a  leg  up  on  his  job;  or 
did  the  soldier  fellow  get  the  bounce  for  going 
outside  regulations?" 

"That  is  possible,  too."  The  old  man  was 
handing  off  the  saddles  and  camp  kit. 

"If  you'll  wait  here,  sir,  I'll  go  along  for  the 
horses!  I  don't  know  the  trails  along  on  this 
side !  It 's  outside  the  N.  F ! " 

There  was  no  moonlight  to  guide  him ;  but  there 
was  the  wall  of  blue  sky  where  the  mountains 
opened;  and  he  followed  up  the  lake  shore  with 
a  sense  of  feel  more  than  sight  for  one  of  those 
little  indurated  game  tracks  that  would  lead  back 


ON  THE  GAME  TRAIL  177 

over  the  stones  to  the  trail  that  the  outlaws  had 
seemed  to  follow.  If  you  think  it  an  easy  thing 
to  walk  over  a  pile  of  moraine  by  the  obscure 
light  preceding  dawn — try  it!.  The  great  mo 
raines  flank  the  mountains  in  petrified  billows 
stranded  on  the  shores  of  time  from  the  ice  ages, 
in  stones  from  the  size  of  a  spool  to  a  house. 
Step  on  the  small  stones;  and  they  roll,  bring 
ing  down  the  whole  bank  in  a  miniature  slide 
under  your  feet!  Pick  your  way  over  the  sharp 
edges  of  the  big  rocks;  and  the  glazed  moisture 
is  slippery  as  ice ;  but  he,  whose  foot  hold  fumbles, 
has  no  business  in  the  mountain  world;  and  the 
Eanger  swung  from  crest  to  crest  of  the  pointed 
rocks,  safely  shrouded  in  the  lake  mist,  guided 
solely  by  the  blank  glare  of  sky  between  the 
mountain  walls. 

He  could  hear  the  tinkle  of  waters  down  the 
ledges  on  his  right;  and  the  little  flutter  of  wind 
riffling  through  the  Pass  sucking  up  the  mists 
forewarned  dawn.  He  had  climbed  the  roll  of 
stone  slowly,  picking  each  step,  for,  perhaps,  two- 
hundred  feet,  when  that  trail  sense  of  feel  made 
him  stoop  to  examine  the  ground.  The  roll  of 
moraine  he  had  climbed  met  another  stone  bil 
low;  and  between  the  two  ran  a  groove,  a  little 
narrow  hardened  tracing  where  the  tracks  of 
game  going  to  and  from  watering  place  had 
packed  and  worked  in  between  the  rolling  peb 
bles  the  ice  dust  of  a  million  years. 

This,  then,  was  the  trail  that  the  outlaws  must 


178  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

have  followed  away  from  the  lake.  He  stooped 
to  examine  closer.  There  were  horse  tracks. 
Had  his  own  horses  stumbled  up  from  the  lake 
along  this  trail?  It  would  lead  back  to  the  camp 
fire  of  the  night  before.  Better  reconnoitre  while 
there  was  still  the  hiding  of  the  mist. 

He  looked  back.  The  lake  was  obliterated  by 
the  mist  curling  up;  but  above  he  could  see  the 
black  rocks  of  the  precipice  trail  as  if  the  Pass 
behind  had  closed  its  doors  against  retreat;  and 
was  it  imagination,  or  did  he  see,  an  eagle  soar 
ing,  strong- winged,  majestically  out  from  the 
rocks  in  curves  of  insolent  power?  Memory  of 
the  nauseating  horror  came  over  him  in  a  phys 
ical  wave;  and  curiously  enough,  he  kept  hear 
ing  the  soft  voice  of  the  Senator's  scoffing  ques 
tion:  "Who  of  the  public  gives  one  damn?"  It 
was  easier  sitting  smug  inside  the  firing  line. 
He  knew  men  in  the  Service  who  would  call  him 
a  fool  for  going  out  on  this  present  quest;  and 
he  knew  others  whose  jealousy  would  say  it  was 
all  done  for  self-advertising;  and  he  knew  also 
that  he  might  be  dismissed  for  going  out  beyond 
the  letter  in  order  to  fulfil  the  spirit  of  the  law; 
but  preceding  the  horror  of  the  precipice  trail, 
was  that  other  memory  of  the  dead  boy  lying  at 
the  foot  of  the  Eim  Eocks  beside  the  writhing 
mass  of  mutilated  sheep. 

The  Eanger  followed  along  the  game  trail. 
"Who  was  it  had  said  that  the  only  difference  be 
tween  charcoal  and  diamond  was  that  one  was 


ON  THE  GAME  TRAIL  179 

soft  and  the  other  hard?  Was  that  what  ailed 
the  Nation?  Had  the  fine  edge  of  citizenship 
dulled?  Was  the  Nation  losing  the  fine  edge  of 
distinction  between  right  and  wrong? 

Another  little  flutter  of  wind  set  the  restless 
mists  hoiling. 

" Strange  it  is  hot  eo  early,"  thought  Way- 
land.  Fir  trees  stood  out  from  the  shifting  gray 
haze.  Among  them,  did  he  see  shadows  moving? 
They  might  be  deer  coming  down  to  water.  In 
voluntarily,  he  stepped  behind  some  alder  brush 
off  the  trail.  Another  flutter  of  wind  thinning 
the  turbid  mist.  There  was  a  whiff  of  camp 
smoke.  Through  the  mist,  he  could  make  out 
figures  not  a  hundred  yards  away — five  horses 
ready  for  travel,  four  men  clumsily  lifting  a  fel 
low  in  cow-boy  slicker  into  his  saddle.  The  man 
fell  forward  over  the  pummel.  The  group  seemed 
undecided  what  to  do.  Then,  picked  out — dis 
tinct — deliberate — coming  over  the  stones  from 
the  lake  side — leisurely,  lazily,  careful,  soft  foot 
steps  with  rests  between— The  Eanger  would  not 
have  been  surprised  to  see  the  missing  outlaw 
limp  from  the  mist — Then,  the  head  of  his  own 
errant  mule  bobbed  forward,  and  another  roll  of 
mist  came  up  from  the  lake.  Wayland  caught 
the  trailing  halter,  headed  the  amazed  little  ani 
mal  back  down  the  goat  track  with  an  urgent  kick 
and  sprang  after  it  to  a  clatter  of  rolling  stones. 
When  the  clamor  sank,  he  heard  the  pound  of 
hoofs  as  the  outlaws  galloped  in  the  other  direc- 


180  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

tion.  Five  paces  farther,  he  found  both  the 
bronchos  nosing  consolingly  round  the  mule. 
Wayland  emitted  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  If  he 
had  waited  five  minutes  longer  at  the  raft,  they 
would  have  had  his  horses.  It  was  all  in  the  dif 
ference  between  being  on  the  wrong  and  the  right 
side  of  five  minutes. 

"Y*  don't  need  t'  tell  me  we're  goin'  South 
an'  down — We  might  be  goin'  to  the  bottomless 
pit.  The  wind's  like  a  furnace." 

"Off  the  Desert,"  explained  the  Banger. 

The  sun  had  risen  high  above  the  peaks.  The 
mists  had  receded  to  belts  and  wisps  of  cloud 
against  the  forests.  Waters  tumbling  wind 
blown  from  the  ledges  were  swelling  to  a  chorus. 
Little  cross  bills  and  jays  that  had  come  round 
the  breakfast  camp  still  followed  the  pack  train. 

"As  this  is  off  y'r  National  Forests,  A  sup 
pose  y'  couldn't  have  jumped  into  the  bunch  an' 
arrested  every  man-jack  of  'em?" 

"Not  without  being  a  target  for  five  shots  while 
they  would  have  been  targets  for  only  one." 

"We'd  have  strung  'em  up  in  the  good  old 
days,  an'  sent  for  the  sheriff  to  clean  up  the  rem 
nants." 

They  had  left  the  goat  track  and  dipped  down 
a  shaggy  green  hollow  between  mountains  that 
seemed  to  slope  to  lakes  of  pure  light  above  a 
blue  open  plain. 

"Any  citizen  can  arrest  a  law  breaker  where- 


ON  THE  GAME  TRAIL  181 

ever  found.  Our  badge  is  supposed  to  increase 
that  privilege ;  but  the  crime  was  committed  just 
a  stone's  throw  off  the  grazing  ground  in  the 
National  Forests.  We'd  have  to  turn  our  prison 
ers  over  to  Sheriff  Flood.  How  long  do  you 
think  he'd  keep  'em  in  custody?  They'd  escape 
while  he  was  having  an  attack  of  'look-the-other- 
way— '  " 

"Your  idea  to  run  'em  aground  in  their  own 
State?" 

"Not  necessary  to  go  so  far.  Eun  them  across 
this  State  line — then  catch  them  off  guard  in 
some  of  these  canyons  or  arroyos.  Turn  them 
over  to  a  sheriff  who  doesn't  owe  his  bread  and 
butter  to  Moyese.  He'll  have  to  hold  them  till 
Williams  and  MacDonald  come  down  to  testify. 
By  that  time,  I  fancy  we'll  hear  from  people  who 
have  been  losing  stock  all  the  way  up  from 
Arizona.  Moyese  will  be  keeping  mighty  quiet." 

"Meanwhile,  Mr.  White-vest,  who  planned  all 
this  deviltry — he  goes  free!  These  are  only  the 
poor  rowdy  tools  for — " 

"For  the  Man  Higher  Up,"  finished  Way- 
land. 

"Wayland,  who  is  this  white-vested  anarchist, 
this  vested-righter  who  subverts  your  laws?" 

"His  name  is  Legion,  sir!  That's  what's  the 
matter!  These  hide-bound  vested  righters  are 
only  vested  righters  when  the  rights  don't  happen 
to  belong  to  some  other  man."  The  Eanger  re 
lated  the  incidents  of  the  visit  to  the  Kidge. 


182     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

The  old  man  rode  along  in  silence. 

' 'And  from  what  you  say,"  finished  Wayland, 
4 'he  evidently  didn't  mean  any  harm  to  come  to 
the  boy;  but  that  is  always  the  way  with  this 
cursed  system.  You're  law  breaking  law-mak 
ers,  your  divine-right-king-crooks  out  here — 
don't  plan  crime.  They  only  plan  to  have  their 
own  way.  It's  like  a  man  breaking  down  a  dam 
to  get  a  little  water.  When  the  floods  burst 
through  the  break,  he  thinks  it  isn't  his  fault." 

"That's  what  some  of  our  Scotch  kings 
thought;  we  took  their  heads  off  just  the  same." 

"Well,  if  we  can  get  our  people  wakened  up, 
we'll  take  a  few  heads  off,  too,  at  election  time." 
He  touched  his  pony  to  a  brisk  trot  across  the 
meadow,  following  the  mule  as  it  dodged  in  and 
out  among  the  larches,  up  over  a  saddle  back  and 
down  again  thwarting  a  long  bare  hollow. 

Wayland  saw  the  light  come  sifting  in  gold 
dust.  Somehow,  the  warmth  of  it  swept  round 
him  in  a  consciousness  of  that  night  on  the  Kidge. 
It  was  like  the  snow  flakes  she  talked  about, 
sculpturing  the  rocks,  shaping  destiny.  Would 
the  day  ever  come  when  they  two  could  ride  forth 
adventuring  happiness  together?  The  hammer 
of  a  woodpecker,  the  resinous  tang  of  the  gold- 
dust  air,  the  shaking  of  the  evergreen  needles 
like  gypsy  tambourines — filled  him  with  an  absurd 
sense  of  the  joy  of  life;  and  he  could  never  drink 
the  joy  of  these  things  without  thinking  of  her ;  for, 


ON  THE  GAME  TRAIL  183 

the  consciousness  of  her  presence,  of  the  warm 
glow  of  her  love,  enveloped  all  now,  permeated 
his  being,  a  life  inside  his  life,  blended  of  his 
own. 

"A  don't  like  the  way  that  mule  o'  yours  keeps 
lookin'  ahead  with  both  ears,  Wayland!  It's  all- 
fired  quiet  here,  for  noon-hour  when  the  streams 
should  be  shouting.  There  is  something  mighty 
queer  and  still  in  this  air.  Yon  saucy  wood 
pecker  has  quit  drilling  Hold  back  a  bit!  A'm 
goin'  ahead !  A  Ve  known  these  mountains  longer 
than  you  have,"  and  curving  through  the  brush 
wood,  the  old  frontiersman  came  out  ahead  of  the 
pack  leader. 

The  little  mule  had  undoubtedly  followed  a  kind 
of  trail.  Though  the  grasses  were  saddle-high, 
punky  logs  showed  the  fresh  rip  of  shod  horses. 
Little  mossy  streams  betrayed  roiled  water  and 
stones  over-turned.  Then,  the  path  emerged 
from  the  trees  so  abruptly  you  could  have  drawn  a 
line  along  the  edge  of  the  timber,  out  to  a  great 
hollowed  slope,  wind-blown,  bare  of  rocks,  clear 
of  trees  as  if  levelled  by  a  giant  trowel;  hushed, 
preternaturally  hushed,  the  Kanger  thought  as  he 
came  up  abreast  and  glanced  to  the  top  of  the 
long  slope  where  the  snows  glistened  over  the 
edge  of  the  rocks  heavy  and  white. 

"This  is  what  we  heard  last  night!  See,  Way- 
land,  the  snow  up  there  has  been  breakin'!  It 
sags !  Got  its  fore  feet  forward  for  a  race  down 
one  of  these  days!" 


184  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Both  men  became  aware  of  something  porten 
tous  and  heavy  in  the  silence:  it  was  mid-day; 
but  there  was  no  noon-time  shout  of  disimpris- 
oned  waters.  Not  a  crossbill,  not  a  jay,  neither 
eagle  nor  hawk,  showed  against  the  azure  fields  of 
sky  and  snow.  A  little  riffle  as  of  waiting  flut 
tered  through  the  grasses  and  leaves.  Wayland 
was  looking  with  dumb  amazement  at  the  great 
field  of  laurel  in  bloom  across  the  slope ;  three  or 
four  miles  of  it,  leaves  of  green  wax  in  the  sun, 
flowers  passion  pale,  motionless,  waiting;  what 
was  it  he  missed?  The  insect  life;  there  were 
neither  butterflies  nor  bees  rifling  the  fields  of 
honey  bloom ;  the  flowers,  acres  and  acres  of  them, 
stood  passion  pale,  motionless  waiting — waiting 
what?  Then,  there  was  a  singing  in  his  ears,  a 
weird  strange  undertone  to  the  hush  of  the  for 
est  behind  them.  His  breath  came  heavy.  The 
old  man  was  speaking  in  a  muffled  voice. 

"See,  boy,  there  are  three  men  on  the  other 
side!  They  are  signalling." 

Wayland  came  alive  out  of  his  strange  trance. 

"It  isn't  to  us  they  are  signalling.  Move  back 
quick,  out  of  sight,  sir;  see!  there's  a  man  half 
way  across,  the  fellow  in  the  yellow  slicker! 
There's  some  one  on  foot  holding  him  in  his  sad 
dle!  What  ever  are  they  waving  so  frantically 
for?" 

Involuntarily,  both  men  had  wheeled  the  ponies 
back  in  the  screen  of  trees,  when  the  old  man  cried 
out:  "What  in  blazes  ails  your  mulef " 


ON  THE  GAME  TRAIL  185 

The  little  animal  had  jumped  sideways. 

6 ' Get  back,  quick !  for  God's  sake,  Wayland !  A 
know  the  signs  from  the  Canadian  Eockies.  It 
isn't  us  they  are  signalling.  It's  the  snow;  it's 
coming,  Wayland!" 

The  words  were  smothered  by  a  tremor  grinding 
through  the  hollow  hush.  There  was  a  split,  a 
splintering,  a  dull  boom  of  titanic  weight  falling, 
miles  away.  They  saw  the  puff  of  snow  dust  fly 
up  in  a  toss  of  mist  over  the  face  of  the  distant 
upper  crags.  Then,  a  grinding  tore  the  earth; 
something  white  glistening  viscous  crumpled- 
coiled  with  untellable  furious  speed,  shaggy  and 
formless,  out  from  the  upper  peaks — coiled  and 
writhed  out  like  a  giant  python  in  titanic  torture. 
For  an  instant,  for  less  than  the  fraction  of  an 
instant,  it  poised  and  coiled  and  looped  as  a  great 
white  snake  in  and  out  among  the  far  upper  mead 
ows  :  then  ruptured  free  with  ear  splitting  wrench. 
The  air  was  ripped  to  tatters.  The  forest,  the 
rock  wall,  the  foundations  of  the  universe  gave 
way;  the  huge  hemlocks  were  tossing  and  bend 
ing  like  feathers;  the  upper  forests  toppled  and 
spilled  like  an  inverted  matchbox.  Then  the 
whole  world,  earth,  air,  rocks,  forest,  shot  down  in 
a  blinding  rush,  in  a  viscous  torrent  of  titanic 
fury.  The  surface  of  the  mountain  crumpled  up 
and  peeled  in  a  sliding  mass. 

Wayland  came  to  himself  hurled  back  a  hun 
dred  feet  knocked  flat  by  an  invisible  blow.  The 


186  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

old  frontiersman  lay  clinging  to  a  prone  trunk 
spitting  blood  and  gasping  for  air.  The  animals 
were  scrambling  to  their  feet  saddles  twisted, 
bridles  broken. 

"  'Twas  the  concussion  of  the  air!  A'm  not 
hurt,  not  a  feather  o '  my  head  hurt !  A  Ve  seen  it 
before  in  the  Kockies!  Look  back,"  he  panted. 

When  the  Kanger  turned,  the  clouds  of  dust 
were  settling,  though  the  earth  still  rocked.  A 
hundred  feet  of  snow  lay  across  the  trail  in  a 
wall.  Huge  trees  had  been  torn  from  the  roots, 
sucked  in,  twisted  and  torted  like  straws. 

"Look,"  reiterated  the  old  frontiersman. 

Against  the  rock  trail  on  the  other  side  of  the 
snow  slide,  three  men  stood  waving  frantically. 
From  the  time  the  falling  cornice  of  snow  had 
tossed  up  in  a  puff  of  smoke  ten  miles  away  to 
the  fell  stroke  of  the  titanic  leveller  of  the  ages 
— not  ten  seconds  had  passed.  It  would  have 
been  an  even  bet  that  the  men  on  the  other  side 
had  been  caught  in  the  middle  of  their  sentences, 
in  the  middle  of  their  signalling.  As  for  the  in 
jured  man  and  his  companion — Wayland  looked 
down  the  mountain  slope.  The  snow  slide  had 
shot  to  the  bottom  and  gone  quarter  way  up  the 
other  side. 

"  'Twill  be  safer  now  to  cross  to  the  other  side ! 
We  can  go  up  above  the  snow  slide  and  cross  by 
the  bare  rocks ! ' ' 

But  Wayland  was  unheeding.  What  was  it 
about  snow  flakes  massing  to  a  momentum  that 


ON  THE  GAME  TKAIL  187 

bevelled  the  granite  and  rolled  away  the  rocks 
for  the  resurrection  to  a  new  life?  Would  it  be 
so  some  day  with  the  Nation?  Would  the  quiet 
workers,  the  pure  thinkers,  the  faithful  citizens 
mass  some  day  to  sweep  away  the  lawlessness,  the 
outrage,  the  crime,  the  treachery,  the  trickery,  the 
shame,  the  sham  of  self-government's  failures;  to 
roll  away  the  stone  for  the  resurrection  to  a  new 
Democracy?  'High  brows,'  *  dreamers,'  'ghost 
walkers,'  'barkers,'  'biters,'  'muck-rakers!'  Oh, 
he  knew  the  choice  names  that  lawless  greed  cast 
at  such  as  he;  but  a  greater  than  he  had  said 
something  about  the  meek  and  the  inheritance  of 
the  earth;  and  there  lay  the  work  of  the  snow 
flake  across  the  trail. 

"I  suppose,"  he  remarked  absently,  "it's  our 
duty  to  go  down  and  dig  those  dead  duffers  out." 

"Nothing  o'  the  kind.  They'll  keep  cold  stor 
age  till  the  crack  o'  doom,  and  after  that  'tis  an 
ice  pack  they'll  need.  The  snow's  too  clean  a 
grave  for  the  likes  o '  them !  The  Lord  has  hewn 
out  a  path  through  the  sea !  Sound  the  loud  tim 
brel  and  on!" 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   DESEET 

Four  days  had  passed  since  they  stood  on  the 
edge  of  the  snow  slide  and  gazed  across  at  three 
outlaws  on  the  far  side  under  the  crag  waving 
frantically  where  their  belated  comrades  had  been 
buried  under  the  avalanche.  When  the  outlaw 
drovers  had  turned  and  galloped  into  the  blue 
slashed  gully  of  the  opposite  mountain,  the 
Eanger  had  observed  that  their  only  remaining 
pack  horse  was  white,  an  old  dappled  white  run 
ning  with  a  limp. 

It  had  taken  the  better  part  of  three  days  to 
cross  above  the  wreckage  of  snows  and  forest. 
They  had  camped  for  two  nights  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  upper  glaciers.  Wayland  could  see 
the  reflection  of  the  stars  in  the  ice  at  night, 
and  count  the  layers  of  the  century's  snow-fall 
that  harked  back,  each  layer  a  year's  fall,  to  the 
eras  before  Christ. 

"The  little  snow  flake  has  been  on  the  job 
a  long  time, ' '  he  said  to  the  old  preacher. 

Matthews  didn't  understand.  ' '  Can 't  make  out 
why  it 's  so  hot  when  we  're  high  up ! " 

"The  wind  is  off  the  Desert,"  said  Wayland. 

"Mountains  in  a  desert?" 

188 


THE  DESERT  189 

" That's  the  same  as  asking  if  you  ever  have 
summer  in  Saskatchewan.77 

The  frontiersman  looked  more  puzzled  than 
ever. 

Wild  longings  to  seize  the  day's  joy  came  to 
the  Ranger.  If  the  snow  flake  typified  law  sculp 
turing  the  centuries,  law  was  a  process  not  of  a 
life  time,  not  of  a  century,  but  aeons  of  centuries ; 
and  flesh,  spirit,  humanity's  brevity  cried  out 
for  the  trancing  joys  of  the  present.  If  law  took 
billions  of  years  to  sculpture  its  purpose,  grind 
ing  down  the  transient  lives  in  its  way? — When 
Wayland  came  to  that  impasse,  he  used  to  get 
off  and  walk.  He  did  not  know,  and  it  was  well 
he  did  not  know,  she  was  pacing  her  room  two 
hundred  miles  back  on  the  other  side  of  the  Di 
vide,  praying  that  he  might  succeed  in  one  breath, 
that  he  might  come  back  in  another,  and  praying 
always  that  they  might  both  be  strong. 

Every  mile  was  a  mile  deeper  into  the  eternity 
of  her  love  ...  he  knew  that;  but  he  also 
knew  that  the  fulfilment  of  duty  meant  renuncia 
tion.  Was  it  the  cry  of  the  flesh?  Wayland 
scoffed  the  thought.  Flesh  in  the  frontier  West 
doesn't  take  the  trouble  to  wear  fig-leaf  signs. 
It  is  blazoning,  bold,  unashamed,  known  for  what 
it  is;  but  there  is  no  confusion  of  values.  He 
who  wills  takes  what  he  wills  and  wears  the  mark. 
Wayland  had  been  long  enough  away  from  the 
confused  values  of  more  civilized  lands  to  know 


190  FREEBOOTERS  OP  THE  WILDERNESS 

belladonna  eyes  from  starlight ;  and  he  knew  what 
his  being  craved  was  not  carrion.  It  was  what 
harmonizes  both  flesh  and  spirit,  and  lifts  the 
temporal  to  eternity.  Eternity  ...  he 
laughed  again.  Eternity  was  too  short ;  and  that 
was  what  renunciation  meant,  giving  up  a  citadel 
against  all  the  harking  cares  and  hells  of  hate  in 
life. 

Where  they  had  picked  up  the  fugitives'  trail 
again  on  the  fourth  day  from  the  snow  slide,  the 
Eanger  had  taken  stock  of  provisions.  We  none 
of  us  know  just  how  long  the  Trail  is  to  be  when 
we  set  out.  Flour  and  tea  enough  for  a  month's 
travel:  of  bacon  and  canned  beans,  only  a  day's 
supply  remained. 

"Yes,  on  your  life,  forward,  long  as  there's  a 
mouthful  left  .  .  .  push  on,"  Matthews  had 
urged. 

Wayland  expostulated:  "Do  you  know  what 
Desert  travel  means?" 

"No,  an'  care  less!  If  y'  want  to  get  any 
where,  ye  don't  set  out  to  turn  back!  Dante's 
inner  circle  was  ice!  A've  had  that!  Now,  A '11 
take  a  nip  of  his  outer  circle  and  try  your  blue 
blazing  Desert." 

"It'll  be  blue  all  right,  sir!  You'll  know  it 
when  you  come  to  it  by  the  shadows  being  blue  in 
stead  of  black." 

And  always,  the  trail  had  grown  rockier,  the 


THE  DESERT  191 

forests  more  scattered,  the  trees  scantier  and 
dwarfed,  till  the  way  led  from  clump  to  clump  of 
scrub  pinon  amid  red  buttes  and  sand  hummocks. 
And  always,  the  valleys  widened  and  lifted  to 
higher  table  lands,  blasted  and  shrivelled  and 
tremulous  of  heat,  till  the  mountains  lay  on  the 
far  sky-line  silver  strips  flecked  with  purple,  like 
shores  to  an  ocean  of  pure  light.  And  always,  it 
was  the  trail  of  fleeing  horsemen  they  fol 
lowed,  with  one  track  running  aside  from  the 
others  picking  the  softest  places. 

"Only  one  pack  horse  and  that  lame,"  Way- 
land  pointed  to  the  foot  prints.  "That  means 
they  must  have  provisions  cached  some  where  on 
the  way.  If  we  can  tire  them  out  before  they 
can  reach  their  cache,  we've  got  'em." 

Once,  where  the  way  led  between  flanking  foot 
hills,  the  tracks  dipped  into  a  mountain  stream 
and  didn't  come  up  on  the  other  side.  "Hoh!" 
commented  the  old  man,  "that's  easy;  you'll  take 
the  right  and  A '11  take  the  left;  and  where  the 
hills  lift  up  ahead,  A'm  thinking  you'll  find  the 
tracks  plain." 

All  the  same,  Wayland  noticed  Matthews  fre 
quently  moistening  his  parched  lips ;  and  the  lakes 
of  light  ahead  lay  a  wavering  looming  veil.  A 
mile  farther  on,  the  ripped  punk  of  a  dead  pinon 
betrayed  the  passing  of  the  fugitives.  When 
Wayland  dismounted  to  examine  the  marks,  he 
stepped  on  a  small  cactus.  They  picked  up  a 


192  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

trail  that  led  over  rocky  mesas  and  dipped  sud 
denly  into  the  deep  dug-way  of  a  dry  gravel  bed. 
The  sand  walls  of  the  dead  stream  afforded 
shelter  from  the  sun,  and  the  two  riders  spurred 
their  bronchos  to  a  canter  led  by  the  pack  mule. 
The  sand  banks  spread,  widened,  opened ;  and  the 
mule  stopped,  both  ears  pointing  forward  like  a 
hunting  dog.  They  rode  forward  to  find  them 
selves  looking  down  on  an  ocean  of  light,  shim 
mering  orange  colored  light,  with  the  mountains 
trembling  on  the  far  sky  line  silver  strips  flecked 
by  purple  and  opal.  The  old  frontiersman  mowed 
the  sweat  from  his  brows  and  gazed  from  under 
shade  of  his  level  hand. 

"Sun's  like  a  shower  o'  red  hot  arrows, "  he 
said. 

The  sand  lay  fine  as  sifted  ashes  dotted  with 
clumps  of  bluish-green  sage  brush  and  grease- 
wood.  A  bleached  ox-skull  focussed  the  light  with 
a  glaze  that  stabbed  vision.  The  ashy  earth,  the 
dusty  sage  brush,  the  orange  sand  hills,  the  silver 
strip  on  the  far  sky  line  flecked  by  the  purple  and 
opal  loomed  and  wavered  and  writhed  in  a  white 
flame. 

"Do  you  see  the  bluish  shade  to  the  shadows !" 
asked  Wayland. 

The  old  man  was  still  shading  his  eyes  from  the 
white  heat.  "Do  A  see  mountains,  Wayland f  " 

1  i  Certainly,  you  do !  Did  you  think  the  Desert 
flat  as  the  seal" 


THE  DESERT  193 

"That's  just  it!  If  A  see  mountains,  then  A 
see  water  too!  It  keeps  wavering." 

i 'By  which  you  may  know  it  isn't  water/' 
warned  Wayland. 

"Wayland,  A'  don't  believe  you!" 

He  had  dismounted  as  he  spoke  and  proceeded 
down  the  yellow  sands  to  a  pit  at  the  foot  of 
the  rolling  slope.  Wayland  saw  him  halt,  again 
shade  his  eyes  from  the  sun  glare,  and  stoop.  On 
his  knees,  he  looked  again  and  rose.  He  came  up 
the  slope  shaking  his  head.  "Y'd  swear  it  was 
water  at  y'r  very  feet  till  you  bent  down." 

' '  Till  you  changed  the  angle  of  reflection  .  .  . 
eh?  and  then  the  water  vanished,  sir." 

Both  men  had  thrown  their  coats  across  the 
rear  of  the  saddles.  Matthews  now  knotted  a 
large  handkerchief  round  his  neck.  There  was 
not  a  cloud,  nor  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  for  shade. 
It  was  a  wilted,  shrivelled,  heat-flayed,  fire-blasted 
world  of  arid  desolation;  trenched  by  the  dry 
arroyos;  sifted  by  the  hot  winds  fine  as  flour; 
with  rings  and  belts  and  wavering  layers  of  heat 
— heat  from  the  orange  sun  edged  red  by  the 
Desert  dust  of  the  atmosphere — heat  from  the 
wind  off  some  white  flamed  furnace — heat  from 
the  ochre  shifting  sands  panting  to  the  loom  and 
writhe  of  the  blue-flamed  air,  and  over  all  a  veil, 
was  it  blue  or  lilac  or  lavender?  tinted  as  of  rain 
bow  mists.  For  a  little  while,  neither  spoke. 
Each  knew  what  the  dusty  dead  orange  earth,  the 


194  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

smoking  sand  hills,  the  sifted  volcanic  ash,  the 
burnt  oil  smell  of  shrivelled  growth,  meant  to 
unprepared  travellers. 

"I  wish,  sir,"  said  Wayland,  "I  wish  you 
would  turn  back  here  and  let  me  go  on  alone;  I 
really  do!" 

"What!  turn  tail  like  a  whipped  dog  an' 
scuttle  at  first  danger?  Go  to  blazes,  my  boy! 
Do  you  think  y'r  beasts  will  stand  crossing  before 
sunset  !" 

"It's  about  as  easy  going  ahead  as  standing 
still.  If  we  only  had  a  water  canteen,  it  wouldn't 
be  such  a  fool-thing  to  risk." 

The  wind  flayed  them  with  hot  peppering  sand. 

"If  we  took  time  to  go  back  for  one  now,  this 
wind  would  wipe  out  the  tracks." 

"What's  yon  splash  o'  dust  goin'  over  the  roll 
o'  th'  hill?" 

Beyond  the  quiver  of  the  dusky  heat,  they  could 
see  the  drift  of  ash  dust  eddying  to  the  wind  like 
dirty  snow. 

"I  wish,  sir,  you  would  turn  back  here,"  urged 
Wayland;  but  Matthews  was  not  heeding.  He 
had  gathered  up  the  broncho's  reins. 

"Time  to  be  moving,"  he  said.  "  'Tis  my  ob 
servation,  Wayland,  that  the  devil  gets  away  from 
the  saint  because,  he'll  always  ride  one  faster. 
Many's  the  time  when  A've  been  pressed  in  the 
old  days,  when  if  the  man  behind  had  just  ridden 
the  one  bit  harder  that  he  thought  he  couldn't, 
just  not  sagged  where  he  flagged,  he'd  ha'  got  me, 


THE  DESERT  195 

Wayland!  When  y'  pace  two  men/  one  ridin' 
with  the  devil  behind  him,  and  the  other  jog  trot 
ting  with  a  dumpy  comfortable  conscience,  'tis 
a  safe  bet  which  will  win." 

There  was  the  clitter  clatter  of  the  horses' 
hoofs  over  the  lava  rocks ;  the  padded  beat  of  the 
easy  plains  lope  as  they  left  the  lava  for  the  ashy 
silt ;  then  no  sound  but  the  swash  of  saddle  leather 
along  trail  marks  that  cut  the  crusted  silt 
like  tracks  in  soft  snow.  The  wind  had  been  flar 
ing  a  steady  torrid  white  flame.  Now  it  began 
to  come  in  puffs  and  whirls  that  beat  the  air  to 
dust  of  ashes  and  sent  the  sand  foaming  in  the 
wave  lines  of  a  yellow  sea.  The  mule  no  longer 
ambled  ahead  with  ears  pointed.  He  shuffled 
through  the  ash  with  dragging  steps;  and  the 
sage  brush  crackled  brittle  where  the  trail  led 
out  from  the  silt  across  the  baked  earth.  The 
heat  waves  writhed  and  throbbed  through  the  at 
mosphere,  a  flame  through  a  sieve,  with  a  scorch 
of  burning  from  the  ground  and  clouds  of  dust 
like  smoke. 

""I  think  I'll  get  off  and  walk,"  said  Wayland, 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word.  "I  hope  those 
blackguards  are  counting  on  camping  at  a  spring 
to-night. ' ' 

They  plodded  on  for  another  half  hour  before 
Matthews  answered. 

' 'Do  you  think  they  did  it  intentionally?  A 
mean,  do  y'  think  they  lured  us  here  to  get  rid  of 
us?" 


196  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Wayland  paused  and  thought. 

i 'It's  all  the  same  whether  they  did  or  not 
.  .  .  now !  What  was  it  you  said  about  a  man 
chased  by  the  devil  setting  a  good  live  pace? 
They  have  to  find  water.  They  know  where 
water  is.  We  don't!  Only  safety  is  to  fol 
low." 

6 '  Queer  how  y'  keep  imaginin'  ye  hear  wimp- 
lin'  brooks !  When  A  let  myself  go,  A  keep 
hearin'  the  tinkle  o'  y'r  rills  back  in  the  moun 
tains!  A  keep  seein'  the  blue  false  water  wav- 
erin'  up  to  my  feet  an'  recedin'  again!  Isn't 
there  a  fellow  in  mythology,  Wayland,  died  o' 
thirst  in  water  because  when  he  reached  to  drink 
it,  it  kept  waverin'  away?" 

"That  fellow  had  travelled  in  the  Desert,"  an 
swered  Wayland. 

He  aimed  his  revolver  at  a  green  rattlesnake 
lying  under  a  sage  brush.  The  sun  glinted  from 
the  steel  barrel.  The  snake  coiled  and  raised 
its  head.  "See"  said  Wayland,  "the  snake 
takes  aim.  The  light  sort  of  hypnotizes  it.  The 
greenest  tenderfoot  couldn't  miss  it." 

"How  far  d'  y'  call  it  across?" 

"Two  to  four  days  straight:  eleven  to  twenty 
if  you  take  it  diagonally.  As  I  make  it,  they  are 
steering  due  West  for  one  of  the  deep  cut  ways 
to  take  'em  South  under  shade." 

"Shade  would  taste  pretty  good  to  me,  Way- 
land." 

Wayland  looked  back  at  his  companion.     What 


THE  DESERT  197 

lie  thought,  he  did  not  say;  but  he  mounted  at 
once  and  hastened  pace. 

"Once  we  find  a  spring,  we'll  travel  at  night," 
he  said. 

A  condor  rose  from  the  rocks  and  circled  away 
with  slow  lazy  sweep  of  wings. 

"You  would  wonder  what  they  could  find  to 
eat  here,  if  it  were  not  for  the  snakes  and  the 
lizards. " 

"Perhaps,  we'll  not  wonder  so  much  before  we 
finish." 

Wayland  looked  at  the  old  frontiersman  again. 
He  was  riding  heavily,  sagged  forward,  with  one 
hand  on  the  high  pommel  of  the  Mexican  saddle. 

"Talk  about  the  heroes  o'  cold  in  the  North," 
he  said.  "  'Tis  easy!  Y'r  cold  buoys  a  man  up! 
This  stews  the  life  out  before  ye  have  a  fightin' 
chance!  Y'  could  light  a  match  on  these  saddle 
buckles." 

"I  think  I  see  sand  hills  ahead.  If  there's  any 
shade,  we'll  rest  till  twilight." 

The  lava  rocks  rolled  to  a  trough  of  sand;  and 
the  light  lay  a  shimmering  lake  in  the  alkali  sink. 

"Is  that  what  y'  call  a  false  pond?" 

"No,  I  hope  you'll  not  see  any  false  ponds 
this  trip!  False  pond  is  in  your  head  or  your 
eye;  and  the  harder  you  ride,  the  faster  it  runs. 
Let's  get  out  of  this  wind!" 

Wayland  noticed  the  horses  paw  restlessly  and 
nose  at  the  gravel  when  they  crossed  the  dry  bed 
of  a  spring  stream. 


198  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Think  y'  could  dig  down  to  water  with  y'r 
axe,  Wayland?" 

The  Eanger  pointed  to  the  wide  cracks  in  the 
baked  earth,  dry  as  flour  dust  deep  as  they  could 
see.  The  mule  led  tlie  way  at  a  run  up  the  next 
sand  roll. 

"  Think  he  smells  water,  Wayland  ?" 

Another  broad  mesa  rolled  away  to  the  silver 
strip  of  mountain  on  the  sky  line;  but  the  fore 
ground  broke  into  slabs  and  blocks  of  red  stone. 
Wayland  examined  the  trail.  It  twisted  in  and 
out  among  the  rocks  towards  more  broken  coun 
try. 

"  There  may  be  a  canyon  leading  SoutK  over 
there, "  he  pointed. 

"Y'  might  try  for  a  spring  beneath  that  big 
rock.  Looks  green  at  the  bottom." 

A  mist  as  of  primrose  or  fire  tinged  the  lakes 
of  quivering  light  lying  on  the  ochre-colored 
mesas.  The  sun  hung  close  to  the  silver  strip  of 
mountain  exaggerated  to  a  huge  dull  blood-red 
shield. 

"Wayland,  is  this  desert  light  red  or  is  it  that 
A'm  seein'  red?" 

The  Eanger  looked  a  third  time  at  his  com 
panion.  The  old  man  sat  more  erect;  but  his 
eyes  were  blood  shot.  A  puff  of  wind,  a  lift 
and  fall  and  drift  of  sand,  the  wind  met  them  in 
a  peppering  shower  of  hot  shot. 

"Is  that  a  rain  cloud  comin'  up?" 

Wayland  glanced  back.    The  heavy  dust  rose 


THE  DESERT  199 

a  red-black  curtain  above  the  flame-crested  ridges 
of  orange  sand. 

" You're  a  churchman,  sir!  You  should  know! 
Ever  read  in  Scripture  of  the  cloud  by  day  and 
the  pillar  by  night?  Ever  think  what  that  might 
mean  on  the  scorching  Bed  Sea  job  when  Moses  led 
a  personally  conducted  tour  through  the  desert  1" 

"Dust?"  queried  the  preacher. 

"By  Harry,"  cried  Wayland,  "that  mule  does 
smell  water." 

The  little  beast  had  set  off  for  the  red  rock  at 
a  canter.  Wayland 's  horse  followed  at  a  long 
gallop.  The  broncho  of  the  old  clergyman  with 
the  heavier  man  lurched  to  a  tired  lope.  They 
felt  the  eddies  of  dust  as  they  tore  ahead,  saw 
the  rainless  clouds  gathering  low  and  gray  far 
behind,  saw  the  sun  lurid  through  the  whirls  of 
red  silt,  saw  the  dust  toss  up  among  the  lava  beds 
like  snow  in  a  blizzard,  then  the  sand  storm  broke, 
the  dry  storm  of  rainless  clouds  and  choking  dust 
flaying  the  air  in  rainless  lightning.  They  gave 
the  ponies  blind  rein  and  shot  round  the  sheltered 
side  of  the  great  red  rock  into  one  of  those  hidden 
river  beds  that  trench  below  the  surface  of  the 
desert  in  cutways  and  canyons.  It  was  dry. 

*  '  The  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land, ' ' 
quoted  the  old  man  sliding  from  his  horse  ex 
hausted. 

Foot  prints  of  men  and  horses  punctured  the 
moist  silt  of  the  river  bottom.  The  little  mule 
was  kicking  and  squealing  where  the  red  rock 


200     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

came  through  the  clay  bank.  Down  the  terra 
cotta  ledge  trickled  a  tiny  rill  not  so  large  as  a 
pencil.  Wayland  was  chopping  a  deep  mud  hole 
in  the  river-bottom  up  which  slowly  oozed  a  yel 
low  pool. 

" Don't  drink  that,  sir,"  he  ordered. 

The  old  frontiersman  was  stooping  to  lave  up 
a  handful  of  the  muddy  fluid. 

" Don't  drink  that  if  you  want  to  get  out  alive! 
Wait,  I  have  something  in  the  pack ! ' ' 

He  threw  the  cinch  ropes  free  from  the  mule, 
pulled  out  the  sacks  of  flour  and  bacon  and  cof 
fee.  ' i  Here  we  are. ' '  He  drew  out  the  only  can 
of  beans  and  punctured  the  end  with  his  knife. 

"If  you  will  satisfy  your  thirst  with  that  juice, 
I'll  catch  the  trickle  down  the  rock  while  we 
rest;  but  you  must  never  drink  this  alkali  sink 
stuff." 

Leaving  the  horses  nuzzling  the  muddy  pool, 
the  Ranger  stuck  his  jack  knife  into  a  crevice  of 
the  ledge  and  hung  the  small  kettle  where  it 
would  catch  the  drip.  Matthews  was  examining 
the  tracks. 

"Not  more  than  an  hour  or  two  old,  an'  A'm 
thinking,  Wayland,  we've  fooled  them  out  of  wa 
ter!" 

"They'll  keep  to  the  shelter  of  the  cutway  long 
as  this  dust  storm  lasts." 

Wayland  was  following  down  the  tracks. 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  silver  strip  of 


THE  DESERT  201 

mountain  reddening  the  heat  lakes  and,  the  Desert 
air.  Across  the  mesas,  the  silt  dust  and  sand 
drift  still  whirled  in  fitful  gusts ;  but  the  air  no 
longer  carried  the  scorch  of  burning  oil.  The 
sky  that  had  blazed  all  day  in  fiery  brass 
darkened  and  closed  near  to  earth,  a  throb 
bing  thing  of  the  Desert  night  brooding  over  life : 
a  oneness  of  space  rimmed  round  by  the  red  sky 
line. 

' '  Hullo, "  exclaimed  Wayland,  pointing  to  the 
bank.  "We  are  not  so  far  behind:  there  is  the 
freshly  opened  cache." 

Where  the  cutway  caved  to  a  hollow  lay  a  hole 
littered  with  empty  cans  and  canvas  bags. 

*'Not  much  value  left,  eh?  Hold  on,  Way- 
land,  this  might  be  useful."  Matthews  had 
picked  up  a  skin  water  bag.  It  was  full  of  tepid 
water. 

"They're  harder  pressed  than  I  thought. 
They've  had  water  stored  here.  They'll  rest 
somewhere  in  the  cutway  to-night.  We'll  likely 
run  them  down  before  morning  if  our  horses  can 
stand  it." 

Back  at  the  rock,  the  Eanger  was  cooking  their 
supper  over  a  fire  of  withered  moss  and  pinon 
chips,  keeping  the  old  man's  mind  off  his  fe 
vered  thirst  by  calling  attention  to  the  tricks  of 
Desert  growth  to  save  water. 

"You  see  the  cactus  turns  its  leaves  into  water 


202  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

vats  with  spikes  to  keep  intruders  off;  and  the 
greasewood  stops  evaporation  by  a  varnish  of 
gum.  I'm  sun- veneered  all  right.  I  don't  sweat 
all  my  moisture  out — " 

"Better  varnish  me,  then,  before  ye  take  me  out 
again." 

Less  than  a  pint  of  water  had  seeped  into  the 
little  kettle ;  and  this  they  used  for  their  tea,  mix 
ing  the  flour  with  the  stale  water  from  the  mud 
pool.  Then,  they  lighted  pipes  and  lay  back  to 
rest. 

Wayland  had  placed  the  kettle  back  under  the 
drip  of  the  ledge. 

"A  can  understand  Moses  smitin'  the  rocks  for 
a  spring;  and  such  a  wind  as  we  had  to-day 
blowin'  the  Bed  Sea  dry,"  observed  the  old  man 
dreamily. 

"I  guess  if  you  get  any  miracle  down  to  close 
quarters,  you'll  sort  it  out  all  right  without  bust 
ing  common  sense,"  returned  Wayland. 

He  wasn't  thinking   of   the   day's   hardships. 

The  silver  strip  of  the  far  mountains  had  faded ; 
first,  the  purple  base;  then,  the  melting  opal 
summit.  At  last,  the  restless  wind  had  sunk. 
The  red  rocks  of  the  mesa  darkened  to  spectral 
shapes.  The  heat,  the  scorch,  the  torrid  pain  of 
the  day  had  calmed  to  the  soft  velvet  caress  of 
the  indigo  Desert  night.  Twice,  the  Banger 
dozed  off  to  wake  with  a  start,  with  a  sense  of  her 
hand  warning  danger.  Always  before,  the 
thought  of  her  had  come  in  an  involuntary  con- 


THE  DESERT  203 

sciousness  whelmed  of  happiness;  but  to-night, 
was  it  ...  fear  I 

He  rose  and  looked  about.  Two  of  the  horses 
lay  at  rest.  The  mule  stood  munching  near. 
The  old  frontiersman  slept  heavily,  his  face  trou 
bled  and  upturned  to  the  sky.  Wayland  noticed 
the  livid  tinge  of  the  lips,  the  shadows  round  the 
eye  sockets,  the  protuberance  of  veins  on  the 
backs  of  the  old  man's  hands.  The  sky  seemed 
to  come  down  lower  as  the  red  twilight  darkened ; 
and  he  could  hear  not  a  sound  but  the  crunch  of 
the  grazing  mule  and  the  slow  drop,  drop,  drop 
of  the  water  seeping  from  the  terra  cotta  ledge. 
,The  stars  were  beginning  to  prick  through  the 
indigo  darkness.  In  another  hour,  it  would  be 
bright  enough  to  travel  by  starlight;  and  the 
Eanger  lay  back  to  rest,  slipping  into  a  dusky 
realm  as  of  half  consciousness  and  sleep ;  but  for 
the  nervous  ticking  of  his  watch,  and  the  slow 
drop,  drop,  drop;  then  sleep  with  a  dream  face 
wavering  through  the  dark;  then  the  watch  tick 
scurrying  on  again;  then  a  hand  touched  him! 
Wayland  sprang  to  his  feet  half  asleep.  He 
could  have  sworn  she  was  standing  there;  but 
the  form  faded.  The  pack  mule  had  flounced 
up  with  a  cough.  A  white  horse  stood  between 
the  banks  of  the  arroyo.  There  was  a  steel  flash 
in  the  dark,  the  rip  of  a  quick  shot,  and  the  kettle 
bounced  from  the  ledge  with  a  jangling  spill. 

"What's  that?"  yelled  the  old  frontiersman, 
jumping  for  the  horses. 


204  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Wayland  was  pumping  his  repeater  into  the 
darkness;  but  the  clatter  of  hoof  beats  down  the 
dry  gravel  bed  answered  the  question. 

"It's  the  signal  for  us  to  get  up,"  answered  the 
Eanger.  "I  don't  mind  the  blackguard's  bad  aim 
so  much  as  I  do  the  upset  of  that  kettle.  Every 
drop  of  water  is  spilled." 

"A'm  thinkin'  'twas  the  kettle  they  aimed  at, 
and  not  us,  my  boy!" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BITTER   WATERS 

But  for  all  that  the  outlaws  seemed  hard 
pressed,  they  succeeded  in  keeping  ahead.  The 
velvet  dark  of  the  night  in  the  arroyo  had  given 
place  to  a  sickly  saffron  dawn.  Where  the  cut- 
way  widened  and  lost  itself  in  an  alkali  sink,  the 
hoof  prints  of  the  fugitives'  horses  led  out  again 
to  the  open  country  of  gray  torrid  earth  "dotted 
by  sage  brush  and  greasewood.  The  yellow  sky 
met  the  ochre  panting  earth  in  a  tremulous  heat 
mist  of  wavering  purple;  and  against  that  sky 
line,  a  swirl  of  dust  marked  the  receding  figures 
of  the  riders. 

1  'There  they  go,  Wayland!  It's  a  case  of  who 
lasts  out  now !  If  we  can  only  keep  pushing  them 
ahead,  this  heat  wull  do  the  rest." 

The  old  man  shaded  his  eyes  as  he  gazed  across 
the  desert  dawn. 

"  Queer  way  y'r  mountains  here  keep  shiftin' 
an'  mufflin'  an'  meltin'  their  lines!  They're 
here  one  minute  about  a  mile  away,  then  as  you 
look,  they've  a  trick  of  movin'  back!  That  dust 
against  the  sky  line  is  about  ten  miles  off  as  A 

205 


206  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

make  it  in  this  high  rare  air;  an'  they're  goin' 
mighty  slow!    We've  played  'em  out." 

"Yes;  but  they  have  played  us  out!  Let  us 
get  off  and  have  breakfast.  If  that  small  wren 
coming  out  of  the  cactus  could  speak,  it  might 
tell  us  where  to  find  water." 

They  had  camped  one  noon  hour  at  a  Desert 
pool  beneath  a  cottonwood,  where  the  putrid 
carcass  of  a  dead  ox  polluted  air  and  water. 
The  Eanger  whittled  the  cottonwood  branches 
for  a  small  chip  fire,  and  he  boiled  enough  water 
to  fill  the  skin  bag  for  the  next  day's  travel; 
but  a  high  wind  was  blowing,  restless,  nagging, 
gusty,  pelting  ash  dust  in  their  eyes,  and  not  to 
lose  the  trail,  they  had  pressed  on  through  the 
sweltering  heat  of  mid-day.  Wayland's  muscles 
had  begun  to  feel  hardened  to  the  dryness  of 
knotted  whip  cords.  His  skin  had  bronzed 
swarthy  as  an  Indian's.  He  was  beginning  to 
rejoice  in  the  vast  spacious  relentless  Desert  with 
its  fierce  struggle  of  life  against  death ;  the  cactus, 
the  greasewood,  the  brittle  sage  brush,  all  match 
ing  themselves  against  the  heat-death.  Was 
there  a  thing,  beast  or  bush,  not  armed  with  the 
fangs  of  protection  and  onslaught!  Wayland 
looked  at  his  leather  coat.  It  had  been  jagged 
to  tatters  by  thorn  and  spine.  Silent,  too;  the 
struggle  was  silent  and  insidious  and  crafty  as 
death.  Who  could  guess  where  the  water-pools 
lay  beneath  the  dry  gravel  beds ;  or  why  the  cac- 


BITTER  WATERS  207 

tus  fortified  its  storage  of  moisture  in  bristling 
spear  points;  the  greasewood  and  pinon  with 
thorns  and  resin;  the  sage  brush  with  a 
dull  gray  varnish  that  imprisoned  evaporation! 
The  very  crust  above  the  earth  of  ash  and  silt 
conspired  to  hide  the  trail  of  wolf  and  cougar; 
and  wolf  and  cougar,  wren  and  condor,  masked 
in  colors  that  hid  their  presence.  Twice  Wayland 
had  almost  stumbled  on  a  wolf  sitting  motionless, 
gray  as  the  ash,  watching  the  horsemen  pass ;  pass 
where?  Was  it  down  the  Long  Trail  where  the 
tracks  all  point  one  way?  Yet  the  fierceness,  the 
craft,  the  relentless  cruelty  of  the  silent  struggle 
matched  his  own  mood.  He  felt  the  stimulus  of 
the  high  dry  sun-fused  tireless  air.  He  began 
to  understand  why  the  Desert  prophets  of  the 
East,  who  camped  on  sand  plains  rimmed  round 
and  round  by  an  unbroken  sky  line,  had  been  the 
first  of  the  human  race  to  grasp  the  idea  of  the 
Oneness  of  God.  And  was  it  not  the  Desert 
prophets,  who  had  preached  a  God  relentless  as 
he  was  merciful ;  and  the  retribution  that  was  fire? 
Well,  Wayland  ruminated,  who  should  say  that 
they  were  wrong?  If  the  God  who  created  the 
Desert,  was  the  God  of  life ;  but  there,  his  thought 
had  been  broken  by  coming  on  the  withered  car 
cass  beside  the  yellow  pool. 

"They  can't  keep  going  on  in  this  heat!  We'll 
run  'em  down  if  we  can  only  keep  going,"  Way- 
land  had  said ;  as  they  set  out  again  in  the  blister 
ing  wind ;  but  to  his  dying  day,  he  will  never  for- 


208  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

get  the  traverse  of  the  Desert  in  that  mid-day 
sun.  To  his  dying  day  he  will  never  see  the 
spectrum  colors  of  white  light  split  by  a  prism, 
or  the  spectrum  colors  of  a  child's  soap  bubble, 
without  living  over  the  tortures  of  that  afternoon ; 
for  the  air,  whipped  to  dust  by  the  hurricane  wind, 
acted  as  a  prism  splitting  the  white  flame  of  light 
to  lurid  reds  and  oranges  and  yellows  and  vio 
lets. 

Now,  on  this  second  morning  before  the  stars 
had  faded  to  the  orange  sunrise  coming  up 
through  the  lavender  air  in  a  half  fan,  the  heat 
had  thrown  riders  and  horses  in  a  sweltering 
sweat;  and  the  nagging  wind  had  begun  driving 
ash  dust  in  eyes  and  skin  like  pepper  on  a  raw 
sore.  Matthews'  ruddy  face  had  turned  livid; 
his  blood-shot  eyes  were  dark  ringed.  The 
horses  travelled  with  heads  hung  low.  Spite  of 
the  sun,  it  was  a  cloudy  sky,  but  whether  rain 
clouds  or  dust  clouds,  they  could  not  tell.  To 
wards  noon,  they  could  see  against  the  purple 
mountains  the  red  tinged  clouds  fraying  out  to 
a  fringe  that  swept  the  sky. 

"A  thought  it  never  rained  in  the  Desert  in 
summer,  Wayland?" 

"It  doesn't. " 

"What's  that  ahead?'' 

"Bain;  but  if  you  look  again,  you'll  see  it 
doesn't  reach  the  sky  line!  It's  sucked  up  and 
evaporated  before  it  hits  the  dust.  .  .  ." 


BITTER  WATERS  209 

Towards  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  the  horses 
were  resting  in  the  shade  of  a  reddish  butte. 
Both  men  had  dismounted.  Wayland  did  not 
notice  what  was  happening  till  he  glanced  where 
the  blue  shadow  of  the  rock  met  the  wavering 
glare  of  the  sand.  The  old  man  had  stooped  to 
one  knee  and  had  twice  laved  his  hand  down  to 
the  wavering  margin  of  blue  light  and  bluer  shad 
ows. 

"Fooled  you  again,  did  it?'  asked  the  Eanger, 
throwing  the  saddle  from  his  own  pony,  strapping 
the  cased  rifle  to  his  shoulder  and  carrying  the 
hatchet  in  the  crook  of  his  elbow. 

"Better  let  me  give  you  a  drink  from  the  wa 
ter  bag;  it's  hot  and  stale;  but  it  will  keep  you 
from  seeing  water  at  your  feet  till  we  find  an 
other  spring." 

The  old  man  drank  from  the  neck  of  the  water 
bag  and  wiped  his  mouth  with  his  hand. 

"Queer  effect  y'r  heat  has  on  a  North  man, 
Wayland!  D'  y'  know  what  A'd  be  doing  if  A 
let  myself?" 

"Drinking  those  blue  shadows  again?" 

"No,  sir,  A'd  be  babbling  and  babbling  about 
the  sea!  A  fall  asleep  as  we  ride;  an'  when  A 
wake  from  a  doze,  'tisn't  the  sea  of  sand,  'tis  the 
sea  o'  water  that's  about  me!  The  yellow  sea  o' 
York  Fort  up  Hudson  Bay  way  where  A  took  the 
boats  from  Saskatchewan." 

Wayland  helped  him  to  mount. 

"Aren't  y'  goin'  to  ride  y'rself?" 


210  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

"No,"  answered  Wayland.  "I'm  going  to 
keep  one  horse  fresh.  Best  this  one  to-day :  then 
we'll  change  off  and  rest  yours  to-morrow. 
Those  fellows  can't  go  any  faster  than  we  do. 
This  heat  will  beat  them  out  if  we  can't.  I'll 
make  those  blackguards  glad  to  drink  horse- 
blood." 

Then,  they  moved  forward  again,  Wayland 
leading  on  foot,  the  little  pack  mule  to  the  rear, 
both  horses  stumbling  clumsily,  raising  clouds  of 
dust ;  breathing  hard,  with  heaving  flanks. 

That  night,  they  halted  in  broken  country 
.  .  .  more  red  buttes;  hummocks  of  red;  silt 
crust  trenched  by  the  crumbly  cutways  of  spring 
freshets ;  sand  hills  billowing  to  a  brick  red  sky, 
where  the  sun  hung  a  dull  blaze.  There  were 
tracks  of  the  fleeing  drovers  having  paused  for 
a  rest  in  the  same  place.  It  was  a  pebble  bottom 
hot  and  dry.  Wayland  scooped  under  with  his 
Service  axe  and  an  ooze  of  clay  water  seeped 
slowly  up  forming  a  brackish  pool.  He  had  to 
hold  the  little  mule  back  from  fighting  the  horses 
for  that  water.  When  the  animals  had  drunk,  he 
filled  the  water  bag  with  the  settlings.  Towards 
three  in  the  morning,  the  soft  velvet  pansy  blue 
Desert  dark  broke  to  a  sulphur  mist.  Wayland 
saddled  horses  and  mule  and  wakened  the  old 
frontiersman. 

* '  Eh,  where 's  this  ? "  He  came  to  himself  heav 
ily.  "Wayland,  is  this  hell-broth  of  a  sulphur 


BITTER  WATERS  211 

stew  doin'  me?  Has  y'r  Desert  got  me,  Way- 
land?" 

"No,  sir,  when  the  Desert  gets  you,  it  gets  you 
raving  mad  with  fever.  Chains  won't  hold  you! 
This  soggy  sleep  is  all  right.  Long  as  you  sleep, 
you'll  keep  your  head!" 

All  the  same,  the  Eanger  noticed  that  the  old 
man  ate  scarcely  any  breakfast.  For  those  peo 
ple  who  think  that  the  Banger's  life  consists  of 
an  easy  all  day  jog-trot,  it  would  be  well  to  set 
down  exactly  of  what  that  breakfast  consisted. 
It  consisted  of  slap  jacks  made  with  water  sedi 
ment.  Both  men  were  afraid  to  draw  on  the  water 
from  the  skin  bag  for  tea. 

They  passed  dead  pools  that  day,  places  where 
Desert  travellers  had  stuck  up  posts  to  mark 
a  spring ;  but  where  the  Service  axe  failed  to  find 
water  below  the  saline  crust.  Then,  Wayland 
knew  why  the  sulphur  dust  drift  moved  so  slowly 
against  the  horizon.  The  outlaws  had  not  found 
water.  Horses  and  men  were  fagging.  A  vel 
veteen  coat  had  been  thrown  aside  to  lighten 
weight ;  from  the  dust  markings  one  horse  seemed 
to  have  fallen;  and  the  load  had  been  lightened 
still  more  by  casting  off  half  sacks  of  flour  and 
some  canvas  tenting;  but  the  tracks  of  the  lame 
horse  picking  the  soft  places  along  the  trail 
showed  drops  of  blood.  Had  it  cut  itself  on  the 
glassy  lava  rocks;  or  was  it  the  hoof!  A  little 
farther  ahead,  the  same  horse  had  fallen  again  to 


212  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

its  knees,  rolling  over  headlong;  and  the  other 
tracks  doubled  back  confusedly  where  the  riders 
had  come  to  help. 

The  Eanger  smiled,  though  the  yellow  heat 
danced  in  blood  clots  before  his  blistered  vision. 
He  had  had  to  put  the  old  frontiersman  back  on 
his  horse  three  times.  The  stirrup  was  wrong; 
or  the  saddle  was  slipping;  or  ...  what 
alarmed  Wayland  was  each  time  he  had  stopped, 
the  old  man  was  stooping  as  if  to  follow  the 
wavering  outline  of  invisible  water.  Then,  when 
the  Eanger  tried  to  count  how  many  days  they 
had  been  out,  he  found  he  couldn't.  He  had  lost 
track:  the  days  had  slipped  into  nights  and  the 
nights  into  days;  and  he  suddenly  realized  that 
his  head  pounded  like  a  steel  derrick;  that  the 
crackling  of  the  dry  sage  brush  leaves  snapped 
something  strung  and  irritable  in  his  own  nerves. 
There  was  no  longer  a  drowsy  hum  in  his  ears. 
It  was  a  wild  rushing. 

Once,  the  horses  shuffled  to  a  dead  stop.  Way- 
land  looked  up  from  the  dancing  sand  at  his  feet. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  again. 

"I  keep  thinking  I  see  a  white  horse  lagging 
behind  that  dust  drift.  What  puzzles  me  is 
whether  they  are  trying  to  get  out  of  the  Desert 
or  lose  us  in  it.  While  we  are  seeing  them,  you 
can  bet  they  are  seeing  us !  There  hasn  't  been  a 
yard  for  a  mile  back,  where  the  hoof  tracks 
weren't  bloody.  They'll  lose  a  horse  if  they  keep 
on  to-day:  then,  they'll  be  without  a  packer ;  but  if 


BITTER  WATERS  213 

they  are  plumb  up  against  it,  why  don't  they  face 
round  and  fight?  They  are  three  to  our  two? 
They  could  hide  behind  any  of  these  sand  rolls 
and  pot  us  crossing  the  sinks;  but  if  they  are 
not  at  the  end  of  their  tether,  why  don't  they 
hustle  and  get  out  of  sight!  If  they  aren't 
played  out,  they  could  outride  us  in  half  a  day." 

The  old  man  was  shading  his  eyes  and  gazing 
across  the  sun  glare.  Wayland  noticed  that  he 
was  steadying  himself  in  the  saddle  by  the  pum 
mel. 

"Is  my  eye  playing  me  tricks,  Wayland;  or  do 
A  see  something  stuck  on  yon  bush  along  the  way? 
First  glance,  it  looks  like  the  leaf  of  a  note  book. 
Keep  looking,  it  might  be  a  tent  a  couple  of  miles 
away.  That  used  to  happen  when  we  were 
buildin'  bridges  in  the  Eockies.  Surveyors  cross 
ing  upper  snows  would  stick  up  a  message  in 
neck  of  a  ginger  ale  bottle:  then,  when  we'd  come 
along  with  the  line  men  after  trampin'  the  snow 
for  hours,  we'd  mistake  the  thing  for  a  man  with 
a  white  hat  till  we  almost  tumbled  over  the  bot 
tle.  Is  it  the  Desert  playin'  me  tricks,  Wayland; 
or  do  A  see  something?  Look,  .  .  .  where 
that  bit  of  brush  grows  against  the  lava  rock 
there. ' ' 

Wayland 's  glance  ran  along  the  trail;  and  for 
an  instant,  the  writhing  sun  glare  played  the  same 
trick  with  his  own  vision.  Something  a  dirty 
white  quivered  above  the  black  lava  table  like  the 
loose  canvas  top  of  a  tented  wagon.  The  Eanger 


214  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

side-stepped  the  trail  for  a  different  angle  of  re 
fraction.  The  object  blurred,  then  reappeared,  a 
leaf  from  a  note  book  not  thirty  yards  away. 
Wayland  went  quickly  forward.  He  was  aware 
as  he  walked  that  the  shrivelled  earth  heaved  and 
sank  so  that  he  had  the  sensation  of  staggering. 
It  was  a  dirty  leaf  from  a  note  book  fouled  by  the 
Desert  winds  and  lodged  in  the  sage  brush. 
Then,  he  looked  twice.  It  was  not  lodged.  It 
was  stuck  down  in  the  branches  secure  against 
the  wind.  The  ranger  pulled  the  thing  off.  The 
under  side  showed  tobacco  stains.  On  the  upper 
were  scrawled  in  heavy  pencil ;  Ey.  20  ml  du  est  if 
yu  don't  cath  upp  hit  itt  est  flagg  midnite  frate 
carrie  yu  mine  sitty. 

"Kailway  twenty  miles  due  East,"  translated 
Wayland.  ' '  That  is  probably  true.  I  think  there 
is  a  branch  line  runs  a  hundred  miles  in  to  Mine 
City.  If  you  don't  catch  up,  hit  it  East,  flag 
the  midnight  freight,  she'll  carry  you  to  Mine 
City.  Well?  What  do  you  make  of  it?  Did 
they  leave  it;  or  did  some  body  else?  If  it  had 
been  there  long,  the  wind  would  have  torn  it  to 
tatters. " 

"Let  me  see  it."  The  old  man  turned  it  over 
in  his  hand.  "Evidently  left  to  direct  the  man 
back  in  the  Pass;  they  don't  believe  he's  dead." 

The  Eanger  took  it  back  and  read  it  over.  "If 
they're  lagging  back  for  the  missing  man,  why 
didn't  they  leave  a  message  sooner?  Trail 


BITTER  WATERS  215 

doesn't  fork  here.  Why  did  they  leave  word 
here?" 

"  There  really  is  a  railway  somewhere  here, 
Wayland?" 

" There  must  be  if  one  knew  where  to  find  it." 

Matthews  smiled.  "Then,  A  take  it  this  is  a 
gentle  hint  to  go  off  and  lose  ourselves  trying  to 
find  it." 

Wayland's  eyes  rested  on  the  slow-moving  dust 
cloud  against  the  horizon. 

"Then  it  is  a  case  of  who  lasts  out!"  He 
looked  at  his  white  haired  companion.  "But 
there's  no  call  for  you  to  risk  your  life  on  the 
last  lap  of  the  race.  It's  not  your  job.  It  means 
another  day;  perhaps,  two.  If  you'd  take  my 
horse,  it's  fresher,  and  the  water  bag,  you  could 
ride  out  to  the  railroad  to-night.  Those  fellows 
are  not  good  for  many  miles  more  unless  they  hit 
a  spring.  Let  me  go  on  alone,  sir. ' ' 

"Alone?"  The  old  man's  face  flushed  furious, 
livid.  .  .  .  "Gitepp!" 

Up  a  sand  bluff,  heaving  to  the  heat  waves; 
down  a  slither  of  ash  dust;  then,  across  the  pet 
rified  black  lava  roll ;  down  to  a  saline  sink,  white 
and  blistering  to  the  sight;  over  a  silt  bank 
crumbly  as  flour;  and  on  and  yet  on;  across  the 
dusty  sage-smelling  parched  plain  .  .  .  they 
moved;  always  following  the  tracks;  tracks  con 
fused  and  doubling  back  as  if  the  hind  horse 


216  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

lagged;  with  blood  drip  and  shuffling  dragging 
hoofs;  always  keeping  the  dust  whirl  of  the  fore 
horizon  in  view;  on  and  on,  but  speaking  scarcely 
at  all! 

The  Eanger  again  had  that  curious  sensation 
of  the  earth  slipping  away  from  his  foot  steps. 
He  had  thrown  away  his  leather  coat  early  in  the 
morning.  Now  he  found  himself  tearing  off  the 
loose  red  tie  round  the  flannel  collar  of  the  Serv 
ice  suit;  and  he  pulled  himself  sharply  together 
recognizing  the  fevered  instinct  to  strip  off  all 
hampering  clothing.  It  was  as  much  a  heat-death 
symptom  as  sleep  forbodes  frost  death.  He  did 
not  walk  in  a  daze  as  the  old  man  rode,  half  numb 
ness,  half  drowse.  He  walked  with  a  throb 
— throb — throb  in  his  temples  like  the  fall  of 
water.  He  wanted  to  run;  to  strip  himself  as 
an  athlete  for  a  race;  and  all  the  time,  he  kept 
walking  as  if  the  heaving  earth  went  writhing 
away  from  each  step. 

"Don't  y'  think  ye  better  open  that  pack,  an' 
get  a  drink  for  y'rself,  my  boy?" 

Wayland  was  pausing  in  the  shadow  of  a  sand 
butte,  and  the  old  man  had  ridden  up. 

"Want  it  for  yourself?" 

"Not  a  drop." 

"Better  keep  it  for  the  horses,  then;  if  we  can 
keep  them  going  to  the  next  spring,  they'll  carry 
us  out.  Anything  the  matter  with  me  that  you 
ask  that?" 


BITTER  WATERS  217 

"Oh  no;  A  thought  A  saw  you  wave  y'r 
arms." 

The  Banger  looked  at  the  elder  man.  He  was 
riding  leaning  forward  heavily;  and  the  dust  had 
trenched  deep  fatigue  .lines  in  the  hollow  beneath 
his  eyes  and  from  the  nostrils  to  the  mouth. 
Wayland  didn't  retort  that  the  frontiersman's 
speech  had  sounded  guttural  and  muffled.  He 
was  not  sure  it  was  not  the  fault  of  his  own  ears. 

They  worked  slowly  to  the  crest  of  the  sand 
roll,  zig-zagging  to  break  the  steepness.  An  ash- 
colored  shadow  skulked  along  the  tracks  of  the 
outlaw  trail.  The  little  mule  gave  a  squealing 
hind  kick.  The  shadow  looked  back:  it  was  a 
coyote,  scenting  the  tracks  of  the  drovers'  lame 
horse.  It  went  loping  over  the  sand  a  blurr  of 
gray. 

* '  Curious  thing  that,  Wayland !  Notice  the  an 
tics  of  the  mule!  Always  see  that  in  a  range 
bred  beast,  centuries  of  ham  stringing." 

The  Eanger  did  not  answer.  The  sand  was  no 
longer  heaving  in  waves.  It  was  running,  sliding 
like  the  glossy  surface  of  the  sea.  The  throb  of 
his  temples,  the  slide  of  the  sand,  the  lakes  of 
light,  light  and  crystal  pools,  that  ran  away  as  you 
came  up,  all  brought  visions  of  water.  The  dust 
cloud  on  the  sky  line  dipped  and  disappeared  be 
hind  a  ridge  of  rolling  sand. 

There  was  the  drowsy  swash  of  saddle  leather 


218  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

and  the  padded  chug  of  dragging  feet  and  the  hum, 
the  hypnotic  hum,  of  the  heat  that  drowsed  from 
delirium  to  sleep. 

"I  think, "  said  Wayland,  "this  seems  a  pretty 
good  jumping-off  place  for  a  rest." 

The  afternoon  was  waning.  They  were 
under  shelter  of  a  sand  bank  from  the  wind  and 
sun. 

"A  think,  Wayland,  this  is  nearly  my  jumping 
off  place  altogether. ' ' 

Matthews  spoke  feebly.  On  pretense  of  steady 
ing  the  fagged  broncho,  the  Kanger  helped  him  to 
dismount.  Then,  Wayland  unsaddled  and  drew 
the  water  bag  from  the  pack  trees.  He  handed 
it  over  to  the  old  man.  Matthews  pushed  it  aside : 
"Keep  it  for  yourself  to-morrow.  If  y'  find  no 
spring,  y'll  need  the  water  to-morrow;  but  A '11 
take  y'r  flask  of  brandy  if  y'  don't  mind?" 

"That's  a  fool  thing  to  take  in  the  heat,  sir." 

"  'Tis  if  y'  intend  to  live,  Wayland;  but  A'm 
at  the  end  of  this  Trail.  A'd  like  a  bit  strength 
t'  tell  y'  a  thing  or  two  before  .  .  .  as  we 
rest!  Don't  waste  any  water  on  flap  jacks." 

The  mule  lay  rolling  in  the  sage  brush.  The 
two  horses  stood  with  lowered  heads  chacking 
on  the  bit  and  pawing.  Wayland  saw  the  brandy 
flush  mount  to  the  purplish  pallor  of  the  old  man's 
face. 

"Wayland,  this  is  my  jumping  off  place! 
A'm  at  the  end  of  the  Track.  The  Trail  where 


BITTER  WATERS  219 

the  tracks  all  point  one  way.  'Tis  na'  sensible 
y'r  hangin'  back  for  me!  If  y'll  take  the  fresh 
horse  an'  go  on  alone,  y'll  get  out!  If  the  rail 
road  is  only  thirty  miles  due  East,  y'  can  make 
that.  We'll  rest  a  bit  here,  then  after  sundown 
we'll  ride  on;  an'  in  the  dark  A '11  drop  back.  If 
it  hurts  y'  t'  think  of  it,  A '11  head  my  horse  due 
East  for  the  railroad!  Y'll  go  on,  Wayland! 
Y'll  not  turn  back  for  me !" 

It  took  the  Kanger  a  moment  to  realize  what 
the  old  frontiersman  was  trying  to  say.  "I 
think  you'd  better  take  another  drink  of  that 
brandy,"  he  said.  "It  seems  to  me  a  fool  thing 
to  let  a  good  man  die  for  the  sake  of  catching 
three  outlaw  blackguards." 

"  'Tis  not  for  the  sake  o'  three  blackguards!" 
The  words  came  out  with  a  rap.  "  'Tis  to  vindi 
cate  justice,  'tis  to  uphold  law,  an'  till  every  good 
citizen  is  willin'  to  lay  down  his  life  hounding  out 
rage  to  th'  very  covert  o'  Hell,  t'  die  protectin' 
law  an'  justice  an'  innocence  an'  right,  y'r  Nation 
wull  be  ruled  by  paltroons  an'  cowards  an'  white- 
vested  blackguards !  Go ;  go  on ;  go  on  to  the  end 
till  ye  fall  and  rot!  If  th'  Devil  takes  to  the 
open  an'  the  saints  take  to  cover,  whose  goin' 
t'  fight  the  battle  for  right!  The  Armageddon 
o'  y'r  Nation ?  'Tis  easy  t'  be  a  good  citizen 
when  the  bands  are  playin'  an'  the  cannon 
roarin'.  'Tis  harder  in  times  o'  peace  to  fight 
the  battle  o'  the  lone  man!  These  outlaws,  these 
blackguards,  these  cut  throats,  they're  only  the 


220  FEEEBOOTEES  OF  THE  WILDEENESS 

tools  of  the  Man  Higher  Up!  Get  them,  then 
go  on  for  the  Man  Higher  Up !  Leave  me,  when 
A  drop  back  in  the  dark  to-night;  if  A'm  in  my 
senses,  A '11  shout  a  bravo  and  give  j'  a  wave! 
Y'r  the  Man  on  the  Job,  the  Nation's  job!  'Tis 
not  by  bludgeons  and  bayonets,  'tis  by  ballots 
and  brains  y'll  fight  this  battle  out;  and  fight  y' 
must  or  y'r  freedom  will  go  the  way  o'  the  old 
world  despotisms  down  in  a  welter.  A  wish  y'd 
go  to  the  top  o'  the  bank  and  have  a  look  ahead." 

An  absurd  sense  of  power,  of  resolution  from 
despair,  of  will  to  do — suddenly  swept  over  the 
Banger.  He  forgot  his  fatigue.  Months  after 
wards,  a  fellow  student  who  had  become  a  pro 
fessor  in  psychology  explained  to  him  that  it  was 
a  case  of  consciousness  dipping  suddenly  down 
to  the  sublimal  reservoirs  of  unconscious  strength 
that  lie  in  humanity;  but  then,  Way  land  had 
left  two  factors  of  explanation  untold:  first,  that 
the  dying  trumpet  call  of  the  old  warrior  mis 
sionary  had  opened  the  doors  of  consciousness 
to  that  night  on  the  Eidge  of  the  Holy  Cross; 
second,  that  the  setting  sun  tinging  all  the  buttes 
and  hummocks  and  plains  with  rose  flame  some 
how  tinctured  his  being  with  consciousness  of  her, 
consciousness  of  the  life  drafts  he  had  taken  from 
her  lips  that  night  of  the  Death  Watch. 

He  went  across  to  the  pack  trees.  Picking  up 
the  cross  trees  and  blankets,  he  laid  them  on  the 
ground  as  a  pillow. 


BITTER  WATERS  221 

"If  you  will  rest  here,  sir,  I'll  go  above  and 
have  a  look." 

From  the  top  of  the  sand  bank,  the  Banger 
looked  down  to  see  the  old  man  lying  with  his 
face  to  the  sky,  his  head  pillowed  on  the  saddle 
blankets,  sound  asleep.  He  looked  across  the 
Desert.  The  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  azure  strip 
of  the  mountain  sky  line.  The  billows  of  lava, 
black  and  glazed,  the  ashy  silt  pink-tinged  to  the 
sun-glow,  the  heaving  orange  sands  .  .  .  lay 
palpitating  infinite  almost  with  a  oneness  that 
was  of  God.  Wayland  was  not  given  to  prayers. 
Perhaps,  like  all  men  of  action,  he  tried  to  make 
his  life  a  prayer.  Somehow,  something  within 
him  prayed  wordlessly  now  .  .  .  not  for  ex 
ceptional  advantage  in  the  game  of  life,  not  for 
remission  of  the  laws  of  Nature,  not  for  miracle, 
but  for  aptitude  to  play  the  game  according  to 
rules.  His  wordless  prayer  did  not  end  in  an 
"amen."  It  ended  in  a  little  hard  laugh.  As 
though  Eight  were,  such  a  simple  business  as  just 
personally  being  good!  or  an  insurance  policy 
against  damnation  and  guarantee  for  salvation! 
What  was  it  the  old  man  had  said?  Your  right 
must  be  made  into  might  .  .  .  that  was  the 
game  of  life :  the  saving  of  the  Nation :  the  good 
old-fashioned  square  deal  no  matter  which  party 
cut  the  cards.  Eight  made  Might,  Might  made 
Eight ;  that  was  what  the  Nation  wanted ! 

Then,  it  came  again,  the  touch,  the  conscious- 


222  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

ness,  the  will  to  power,  to  do,  to  fight  and  over 
come.  He  rose  and  looked  across  the  Desert.  A 
puff  of  dust,  a  swirl  and  eddy  of  riders,  resolved 
itself  through  the  terra  cotta  mist  to  the  forms 
of  three  men  going  over  the  crest  of  the  sand 
roll  against  the  red  sun-wrack  of  the  sky  line; 
three  figures  far  apart,  riding  slowly,  crawling 
against  the  face  of  the  distant  sky;  one  man  in 
advance  bent  over  his  pummel;  a  second  rider 
with  a  pack  horse  in  tow  pulling  and  dragging 
on  the  halter  rope,  the  pack  horse  white  and  lame, 
stopping  at  every  step,  the  man  crunched,  hud 
dling  fore  done,  down  in  his  saddle;  then  drag 
ging  far  to  the  rear,  just  cresting  the  sky  line  as 
the  other  two  disappeared,  swaying  from  side  to 
side,  a  ragged  wreck  lying  almost  forward  on  his 
horse's  neck;  was  he  being  deserted? 

Wayland  uttered  a  jubilant  low  whistle  and 
tumbled  down  the  sand  bank  to  his  camp  kit. 

The  wind  was  at  lull  and  the  velvet  air  palpi 
tating  as  a  human  pulse.  The  after-glow  lay  on 
the  orange  sands  cresting  all  the  ridges  with  cres 
sets  of  flame.  Wayland  was  riding  bare  backed. 

"When  we  sight  them,  I  want  you  to  drop  back, 
sir!  The  Desert's  got  them.  They  haven't  the 
resistance  of  dead  fish  left.  If  we  cut  across  this 
sink,  as  I  make  it,  we'll  save  a  couple  of  miles 
and  almost  meet  them  on  the  other  side  of  the 
next  ridge." 

When  Wayland  had  wakened  the  old  frontiers- 


BITTEB  WATERS  223 

man,  he  had  babbled  inconsequently  about  the 
sea.  Mixing  brandy  with  the  last  of  the  sediment 
water,  Wayland  got  him  into  the  saddle.  There 
were  queer  splotches  of  blood  under  the  skin  on 
the  backs  of  his  hands ;  but  when  the  brandy  re 
lieved  his  fatigue,  he  stopped  babbling  of  the  sea 
and  spoke  coherently. 

"Y'  mind  the  man,  whose  wife  died  in  the 
Desert,  Wayland!" 

His  horse  stumbled.  The  Eanger  snatched  at 
the  bridle  and  jerked  it  up. 

"Yes,"  said  Wayland. 

"Vera  noble  of  the  woman;  'tis  all  right  on 
her  record,  Wayland;  but  what  do  y'  think  o' 
th'man?" 

"But  in  this  case,  the  man  took  her  in  to  save 
her  life." 

"A  wasn't  thinking  of  his  case,"  answered  the 
other  bluntly.  "A  was  thinking  of  yours." 

The  horse  stumbled  again.  This  time,  the 
Eanger  kept  hold  of  the  bridle  rein. 

"A  didna'  just  mean  V  tell  y',  Wayland;  but 
A  want  y'  t'  know  before  A  drop  back.  A  saw  it 
in  her  eyes,  Wayland,  yon  night  she  went  up  the 
Eidge  trail,  and  oh,  man,  A  was  loth  to  speak: 
she  would  cheer  y '  on  in  y  'r  work,  A  thought,  per 
haps — perhaps,  the  Lord  might  be  playin'  an  ace 
card  an'  A'd  no  be  trumpin'  my  partner's  tricks; 
but  'tisn't  so;  Wayland,  'tisn't  so!  This  Desert 
hell  proves  me  wrong.  She  isna  for  y',  man;  no 
man  can  ask  a  woman  to  come  into  a  fight  that 


224     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

may  mean  this!  It's  a  man's  job,  Wayland;  an' 
the  man  who  would  drag  a  woman  into  the  suf- 
ferin'  of  it  isn't  worthy  of  her  .  .  .  isn't  the 
man  to  do  the  job.  Oh  yes,  A  know,  a  woman's 
love  is  ready  to  jump  in  the  fire  an'  all  that. 
Hoh!  The  man's  love  that'll  let  her  is  poor 
stuff,  Wayland,  base  metal,  kind  o'  love  to  burn 
all  away  to  dross  an'  ashes  when  the  fires  come! 
Her's  will  come  out  pure  gold  thro'  it  all,  but 
man  alive,  Wayland,  think  o'  her  when  she  finds 
his  as  dross;  an'  if  he  lets  her  sacrifice  hers  for 
his,  'tis  dross!" 

Wayland  grew  suddenly  hot  all  over.  He  could 
not  bring  himself  to  name  her,  much  less  indulge 
in  the  cheap  confessional  of  tawdry  loose  held 
affection.  He  had  heard  men  discuss  their  love 
affairs:  men  who  could  discuss  them  hadn't  any; 
theirs  was  the  sense  reflex  of  the  frog  that  kicks 
when  you  tickle  its  nerve-end.  He  rode  on  un- 
speaking. 

"Y'll  be  tellin'  y'rself  'tis  too  sacred  to  mouthe 
—with  an  old  fellow  like  me.  All  right!  We'll 
say  it  is  too  sacred;  but  that  minds  me  of  a  Cree 
rascal  on  my  Eeserve,  an  old  medicine  man,  al 
ways  talkin'  of  his  sacred  medicine  bag;  well, 
one  day  when  he  was  good  an'  far  away,  good 
an'  plenty  drunk,  A  took  a  peep  into  his  medicine 
bag;  there  was  nothin'  inside  but  a  little  snake 
that  hissed;  an'  him  beatin'  the  big  drum!  Hoh! 
sacred? 

"Y'll    be    tellin'    me    y'r    passion    vows    are 


BITTER  WATERS  225 

stronger  than  life  or  death  I  Hoh !  Y'd  be  a  poor 
man  if  love  wasn't  stronger  than  death  without 
any  vows  and  big  drum!  Y'll  be  tellin'  me  y've 
warned  her  not  t'  link  her  life  up  wi'  y'rs,  to  help 
y'  resist  an'  all  that;  well,  while  y'r  playin'  y'r 
high  and  mighty  self-sacrifice,  did  y'r  manhood 
melt  in  the  love  light  o '  her  eyes  1 ' ' 

Wayland  jerked  his  horse  roughly  to  a  dead 
stop.  "Mr.  Matthews,  for  what  reason  are  you 
saying  all  this?" 

"A '11  tell  y'  that  too!  A've  come  for  her,  Way- 
land.  A've  come  to  take  her  back  to  her  people. 
Y'  don't  understand,  her  father  is  a  MacDonald 
of  the  Lovatt  clan — came  out  with  Wolfe's  regi 
ment  in  1759." 

"In  1759?"  repeated  Wayland.  "I  heard  her 
father  say  that  very  year." 

"Yes,  and  a  dark  dour  some  race  they  are. 
Lovatt :  Fraser  MacDonald  was  his  name ;  fought 
under  Wolfe  and  joined  the  up  country  fur- 
hunters.  When  he  came  back  from  his  hunting 
one  year,  he  found  his  wife  had  eloped  with  an 
officer  of  the  regiment;  so  he  took  to  the  north 
woods  an'  married  an  Indian  girl  and  his  son 
was  the  man  o'  the  iron  arm,  the  piper  for  little 
Sir  George  in  the  thirties,  who  blew  the  bag 
pipes  up  Saskatchewan  and  over  the  mountains 
and  down  the  Columbia  and  all  round  them  lakes 
where  y'r  Holy  Cross  Forest  is.  They  were  a' 
dark  fearsome  men  in  their  loves  and  hates. 
This  man  married  late  in  life,  he  had  two  sons, 


226  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Angus  of  Prince  Albert  an'  your  Donald  here. 
He  never  saw  his  father  alive.  The  Lovatt 
estates  have  been  restored  by  law;  but  the  line 
is  bred  out,  down  to  a  little  old  lady  whose  waitin' 
me  up  at  my  Mission  on  Saskatchewan.  She 
came  huntin'  heirs.  Angus  had  married  an  In 
dian  woman;  he'll  never  go  back,  nor  his  sons. 
They're  livin'  under  a  tent  to-day.  What  would 
they  do  wi'  a  castle  and  liveried  servants  and 
tenants  an'  things?  Donald,  y'r  sheep  king  man, 
married  a  white  girl.  Some  time  after  '85  she 
left  him  for  the  part  he  took  in  the  Eebellion. 
She  died  after  the  child's  birth;  and  the  father 
claimed  the  daughter.  He's  known  they'd  have 
to  come  for  his  daughter  some  day,  spite  of  his 
part  in  the  Eebellion;  and  that  was  no  such 
shameful  thing  as  y'  might  think,  if  y've  lived 
long  enough  in  the  West,  t '  understand !  He  has 
educated  the  daughter  for  the  place.  As  A  guess, 
she  knows  nothing  of  it,  doesn't  know  who  her 
mother  was,  or  why  her  father  had  to  leave  Can 
ada.  A  guessed  that  much  when  y'r  Indian 
woman  sent  me  the  wrong  road  from  the  Eidge 
trail,  that  night!  She  doesn't  even  know  who 
that  Indian  woman  is." 

"You  came — for  her?"  repeated  Wayland 
slowly.  The  night  on  the  Eidge  came  back  to 
him !  Calamity's  fear  when  the  old  frontiersman 
arrived;  Bat's  threat  to  expose  something; 
Eleanor's  perturbed  letter;  the  father's  half  fur 
tive  defiant  existence.  He  was  too  proud  to  ask 


BITTER  WATERS  227 

more  than  the  other  cared  to  tell,  too  loyal  to 
pry  into  any  part  of  her  life  that  she  could  not 
willingly  share  with  him.  He  sat  gazing  into  the 
mystic  afterglow  of  the  Desert,  a  flame  of  fire 
over  a  lake  of  light.  It  was  as  the  old  man  had 
said,  he  had  asked  her  to  strengthen  his  resolu 
tion;  and  he  drank  in  the  love  light  of  her  eyes 
as  he  asked.  He  had  vowed  himself  to  a  life  apart 
and  then  his  humanity,  his  weakness,  his  need 
had  sealed  the  vow  of  renunciation  in  the  fires 
that  forged  eternally  their  beings  into  one.  But 
this,  this  was  the  Hand  from  Outside  on  which  we 
never  reckon  and  which  always  comes;  the  Des 
tiny  Thing  which  Man's  Will  denies,  wrenching 
the  forging  asunder.  Was  it  right  for  him  to  risk 
their  lives  farther  in  the  Desert  now;  it  affected 
her  life  now;  and  that  was  exactly  what  his  com 
mon  sense  had  foreseen:  the  fighter  must  fight 
alone.  Love  might  send  forth;  but  love  must  not 
be  suffered  to  draw  back. 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  all  this!" 

The  old  man  moistened  his  lips  before  speak 
ing.  "If  A  don't  go  out,  Wayland,  A  want  y' 
t'  see  that  her  father's  told,  that  she's  taken 
back.  When  A  saw  the  love  light  in  her  face 
come  out  like  stars  and  her  breath  break  when 
A  spoke  of  you  as  a  Kanger  fellow,  when  A  saw 
that,  A  thought,  no  matter  what  A  thought. 
If  y'  married  her,  d'  y'  think  y'  could  go  off 
on  the  firing  line;  d'  y'  think  y'  would  if  y'  knew 
y'd  left  her  in  danger?  They'd  strike  at  you 


228  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

through  her,  Wayland  ...  it  would  be  the 
end  of  free  fightin'.  A  ask  no  promise.  'Tis 
enough  AVe  told  y'.  Drive  on!" 

They  moved  slowly  up  the  sand  ridge,  the 
Eanger  a  little  ahead,  oblivious  of  the  livid  blue  of 
the  old  man's  lips  and  the  drag  on  the  bridle 
rope  till  a  quick  jerk  ripped  the  line  from  his 
loose  hold;  and  he  glanced  back  to  see  the  other's 
horse  stagger,  flounder  up  again,  waver  and  sink 
with  a  sucking  groan.  Wayland  sprang  just  in 
time  to  catch  the  old  frontiersman.  He  tore  the 
saddle  from  the  fallen  broncho  and  cinched  it  on 
his  own  horse.  Then  he  lifted  Matthews,  pro 
testing,  to  the  fresh  mount, '  *  till  we  reach  the  next 
rest  place,"  he  said,  tying  the  halter  rope  of  the 
pack  mule  to  the  saddle  pommel.  "Go  on,  I'll 
come." 

Wayland  waited  till  the  horse  and  mule  passed 
over  the  crest  of  the  sand  bank;  then,  he  took 
out  his  revolver.  A  shudder  ran  through  the 
fallen  horse.  The  Eanger 's  hand  trembled.  He 
stroked  its  neck.  "Poor  devil;  it's  none  of  your 
affair  either.  I  wonder  how  the  God  of  the  game 
will  square  it  with  the  dumb  brutes?" 

He  ran  his  left  hand  down  the  white  face  of 
the  broncho.  It  hobbled  as  if  to  stagger  up,  and 
sank  back  dumb,  faithful,  trying,  to  the  end,  one 
fore  knee  bent  to  rise,  the  neck  outstretched. 
Wayland 's  right  hand  went  swiftly  close  between 


BITTER  WATERS  229 

eye  and  ear.  He  shot,  in  quick  succession, 
three  times,  his  hand  fumbling,  his  sight  turned 
aside. 

Neither  spoke  as  they  advanced  down  the  other 
side  of  the  sand  ridge,  the  Eanger  steadying  him 
self  with  a  hand  to  the  mule's  neck.  The  bank 
dipped  to  a  white  alkali  pit  where  the  light  lay 
in  dead  pools,  gray  in  the  twilight,  quivering  with 
heat,  layers  of  blue  air  above  ashes  of  death. 
For  the  second  time  that  day,  the  sand  colored 
thing  skulked  across  the  trail.  Wayland  took 
hold  of  both  bridles  and  led  down,  the  old  man 
wakening  as  from  a  stupor.  The  alkali  pit  lay 
perhaps  a  mile  distant,  gray  and  fading  in  the 
red  light. 

"Wayland,  is  that  water?" 

"Where?    I  can't  see  it." 

"There,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill." 

"With  trees  up  side  down?  No,  sir!  It  may 
be  mirage  of  water  miles  away,  carried  by  the 
rays  of  this  twilight;  but  if  you  can  see  it  and 
the  horses  can't  smell  it,  you  can  bet  on  a  false 
pool!" 

But  the  little  mule  had  jerked  free  with  a  low 
squeal. 

"A  tell  you,  Wayland,  there  is  water;"  and 
he  began  babbling  again  inconsequently  of  the 
sea,  running  his  words  together  incoherent,  half 
delirious. 


230  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Go  on  and  see,  then!  I'll  follow!  If  there's 
water,  look  out  for  the  drovers." 

Wayland  let  go  his  hold  of  the  bridle.  Horse 
and  mule  shot  down  the  sand  bank.  He  saw 
them  shoulder  neck  and  neck  along  the  white 
alkali  bottom,  then  break  to  a  gallop,  the  old 
man  hanging  to  the  pommel ;  then  all  disappeared 
round  the  end  of  the  bank.  Wayland  slithered 
down  the  sand  slope  and  dashed  to  the  top  of 
the  next  hill  breathless.  Below  lay  the  glister 
of  water,  real  water  and  no  mirage,  glassy,  gray 
and  sinister.  The  Eanger  uttered  a  yell;  then 
paused  in  his  head-long  descent. 

The  pony  had  plunged  in  belly  deep;  the  mule 
had  lowered  its  head;  the  old  man  was  kneeling 
at  the  brink.  Wayland  saw  him  lave  the  water 
up  with  his  hand:  then  throw  it  violently  back. 
All  at  once,  the  grip  of  life  snapped.  Matthews 
was  lying  motionless  on  the  sand.  The  horse  was 
chocking  its  head  up  and  down;  the  mule  was 
stamping  angrily  with  fore  feet  roiling  the  pool 
bottom.  It  had  been  one  of  the  salt  sinks  that  lie 
in  the  depressions  of  the  Desert. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WHERE    THE    TEACKS    ALL    POINT    ONE    WAY 

Wayland  poured  the  last  very  driblets  of  water 
sediments  from  the  skin  bag.  This,  he  forced 
past  the  old  man's  lips.  Then  he  drew  the  un 
conscious  form  back  on  the  saddle  blankets,  loos 
ened  the  neck  of  the  shirt,  laved  the  temples  and 
wrists  with  the  salt  water,  tore  strips  of  canvas 
from  the  tent  square,  wet  that  and  laid  it  on 
the  old  man's  forehead.  He  ran  his  hand  inside 
the  shirt  and  felt  the  heart.  It  was  still  beating, 
beating  furiously,  with  faint  flutterings,  then  ac 
cessions  of  fresh  fury.  The  lips  were  black  and 
swollen.  The  eyes  were  sunken;  and  the  veins 
stood  out  in  deadly  clear  purplish  reticulation 
with  splotches  of  transfused  blood  under  the 
shrivelled  skin  of  the  hands.  Then,  he  raised  the 
old  white  head  from  the  pack  trees, — brave  old 
warrior  for  right  going  down  the  Trail  where  the 
Tracks  All  Point  One  Way — ,  and  somehow  got  a 
mouthful  of  brandy  past  the  clinched  teeth.  The 
breath  came  fast  and  faint  like  the  heart  beats. 
Once,  the  eyes  opened;  but  they  were  glazed  and 
unseeing.  Wayland  laid  the  old  head  on  the  pil 
lowed  pack  trees,  fitting  rest  for  frontiersman  of 

231 


232  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

the  wilderness;  then  he  stood  up  to  think!  A 
terrible  passion  of  tenderness,  of  question,  of  de 
fiance  to  God,  rushed  through  his  thoughts.  The 
animals  take  their  tragedies  dumb  and  uncom 
plaining.  Man  alone  has  not  learned  the  futility 
of  shouting  impotent  reproaches  at  a  brazen  sky. 

The  Eanger  unsaddled  the  pony.  Then  he 
tethered  the  mule  and  broncho  by  separate  ropes 
to  the  boulders.  He  placed  the  brandy  flask  by 
the  old  man's  right  hand.  He  thought  a  moment. 
Then  he  laid  the  loaded  rifle  close  to  the  same 
hand. 

The  eyes  were  still  staring  wide  open  unsee 
ing.  The  purple  lips  began  babbling  wordless 
words,  words  of  the  sea,  words  that  ran  into  one 
another  inarticulate.  Wayland  stooped  and  took 
the  left  hand  in  his  own  palm.  It  was  cold  and 
heavy,  a  thing  detached  from  life ;  and  the  purple 
swollen  lips  were  still  babbling  in  inarticulate 
whispers.  Should  he  leave  him  to  die  there 
alone ;  or  go  forth  to  seek ;  seek  what  1 

The  Eanger  stooped  and  pressed  his  lips  to 
the  blood-blotched  back  of  the  faithful  shrivelled 
old  hand.  He  did  not  shed  a  tear.  We  weep 
only  when  we  are  half  hurt. 

Wayland  seized  the  Service  axe  and  uncased 
his  own  rifle.  Then  in  words  that  were  not  wor 
shipful,  not  bending  his  knees,  but  standing  with 
his  hat  off,  he  uttered  what  may  have  been  a 


ALL  TRACKS  POINT  ONE  WAY  233 

prayer,  or  may  have  been  blasphemy.  I  leave 
you  to  judge:  "By  God,  if  there  is  a  God,  why 
doesn't  He  waken  up!  If  there  is  a  God,  does 
He  stand  for  right?  Is  there  such  a  thing  as 
Eight;  or  is  Eight  the  dream  of  fools?  I  want 
to  know !  If  there  is  a  God,  I  want  God  to  speak 
out  clear  and  plain,  right  now,  in  plain  facts,  so 
I  can  understand,  and  not  so  blamed  long  ago 
that  a  plain  fellow  can't  make  out  what's  the  right 
thing  to  do." 

It  was  one  thing  to  pray  under  the  rose-colored 
windows  of  a  college  chapel,  and  another  thing 
to  pray  under  the  yellow,  brazen  Desert  sky. 
There  was  only  the  dreadful  Desert  silence,  with 
the  rattle  from  the  laboured  breathing  of  the 
unconscious  man.  If  there  was  no  God,  then  the 
fight  for  Eight  was  the  futility  of  fools:  Eight 
was  only  the  Eight  of  the  strong  to  prey  upon  the 
weak,  till  the  weak  became  in  turn  strong  enough 
to  prey;  and  that  meant  anarchy.  If  Eight  was 
right  as  two  and  two  make  four  in  Heaven  or 
Hell,  then  where  was  the  God  from  whom  Eight, 
laws  of  Eight  emanated,  guiding  the  unwise  as 
laws  of  gravity  guide  the  stars? 

He  didn't  know  that  he  had  been  staggering 
from  physical  weakness  as  he  climbed  the  ridge 
of  sand.  There  was  the  fresh  horse.  One  of 
them  might  escape  in  a  night  by  riding  it  to  death. 
Then,  there  was  the  possibility  of  the  railroad  be 
ing  within  reach.  One  of  them  might  go  out  to 


234     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

the  railroad,  but  not  both.  The  old  frontiersman 
had  passed  the  point  of  being  able  to  ride ;  and  a 
very  few  hours  would  probably  witness  the  end 
of  his  life.  He  could  tie  the  old  man  to  the  fresh 
horse,  but  the  slow  pace  that  would  be  necessary 
would  sacrifice  both  their  lives.  There  was  an 
other  possibility:  the  fresh  man  on  the  fresh 
horse.  That  way  out  did  not  enter  Wayland's 
mind;  but  he  did  ask  himself  why  the  outlaws 
had  not  come  down  to  the  false  pool.  Why  had 
they  gone  on?  They  were  as  near  the  end  of 
their  tether  as  he  was  of  his. 

Then  he  became  suddenly  conscious  that  he  had 
eaten  almost  nothing  for  twenty-four  hours  and 
that  the  quivering  air  darkening  to  night  rolled 
above  the  yellow  sands  in  a  way  not  caused  by 
heat.  Was  it  saddle  wear  or  exhaustion  that  he 
stumbled  as  he  walked?  He  looked  at  the  silver 
strip  of  mountains  above  the  westering  sky.  A 
fore-shortening  haze  swam  into  his  sight.  There 
was  the  mountain  flecked  with  silver.  Then  it 
had  gone  into  a  milky  black  and  pools,  pools  of 
water,  fringed  by  the  pines  of  the  North,  hung  in 
the  blue  haze  of  mid-air,  fore-shortening,  shift 
ing  like  a  blurred  sieve  into  the  silver  strip  of 
mountain  and  milky  blot,  then  back  again,  pools 
of  crystal  water,  cool  mountain  lakes,  this  time 
with  the  trees  up  side  down  and  figures  among 
the  trees.  He  knew  by  the  trees  being  up  side 
down,  though  he  was  dreaming  of  laughing  as  he 
drank  and  drank,  that  it  must  be  a  mirage !  Then 


ALL  TRACKS  POINT  ONE  WAY  235 

he  came  to  himself  wondering  how  in  the  world 
he  was  sitting  on  the  sand  bank.  And  why  hadn't 
he  kept  the  tea  leaves  to  put  on  his  eyes  in  case 
of  heat  inflammation!  Then,  it  tripped  almost 
under  his  feet,  you  understand  he  did  not  trip,  he 
had  struck  at  it  with  his  Service  axe — the  wolf 
thing  tracking  the  red  stain  of  the  outlaws'  trail 
along  the  base  of  the  sand  bank  out  across  the 
ash  colored  silt  sands.  He  watched  it  pausing, 
where  the  wind  had  eddied  the  dust  in  serpentine 
lines  over  the  tracks,  sniffing  the  air,  loping  across 
the  break,  and  on  out  again  at  a  run,  nose  down  to 
earth:  a  blot  against  the  sky;  the  burned  out 
sulphur  sky  above  an  earth  of  embers  and  ashes. 
Was  it  a  mirage;  or  was  he  going  delirious;  or 
had  he  fallen  asleep  to  dream  her  face  framed 
in  the  blur  of  the  purpling  haze,  receding  from 
him,  drawing  him  with  the  shine  of  the  stars  in 
her  eyes,  drawing  him  with  the  warmth  of  their 
first  passion  kiss  on  her  lips?  He  would  rise 
from  his  grave,  and  follow  her  from  death,  if 
she  wove  such  spells,  whether  of  dreams  or  de 
lirium  or  mirage!  The  Eanger  found  himself 
stumbling  across  the  baked  silt  and  lava  rocks, 
stripped  of  his  hat  and  his  boots,  stripped  like 
a  marathon  runner,  vaguely  conscious  that  he 
ought  to  have  kept  those  tea  leaves  for  that  burn 
in  his  eyes,  that  the  silver  strip  of  the  mountain 
was  there  just  ahead;  now  a  crystal  pool  of  the 
cool  mountain  ]ake  in  mid  air;  now  her  face  had 
vanished  into  the  blue  haze.  Suddenly,  winged 


236  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

things  flappered  up  with  raucous  protest.  The 
coyote  had  skulked  over  the  edge  of  the  lava  dip ; 
not  the  burnt-oil  earth-scorched  Desert  smell,  but 
the  shrivelled  putridity  of  flesh  smote  and  nause 
ated  his  senses.  The  white  pack  horse  of  the 
outlaw  drovers  lay  dead  across  the  trail  at  his 
feet,  a  pool  of  clotted  blood  darkening  the  ashy 
sand.  Its  throat  had  been  cut.  .  .  . 

The  Eanger  drew  off,  rubbed  his  eyes  and 
looked  again.  The  crumbly  silt  had  been  tram 
pled  all  round  the  dead  horse.  So  they,  too,  were 
dying  of  thirst  on  the  Desert.  Which  way  to 
follow  now?  There  were  the  hoof  prints  across 
the  open  level;  but  forking  from  the  main  trail 
was  another  track:  that  of  a  man  dragged  or 
dragging  or  crawling  forward  on  his  hands  and 
knees.  Had  they  deserted  the  third  man ;  or  had 
the  third  man  dropped  back  from  them  to  cut  his 
horse's  throat?  The  Eanger  laughed  aloud,  a 
harsh  cracked  laugh;  he  knew  he  was  delirious. 
The  Lord  had  played  an  ace  and  he  wouldn't 
trump  His  trick  by  going  after  the  trail  of  the 
man  who  had  crawled  away  to  die.  There  was  a 
Deity  of  retribution  at  least,  whether  God  or 
demon :  he  had  vowed  he  would  make  those  black 
guards  drink  horse  blood! 

If  he  hounded  along  the  trail,  perhaps  he  might 
overhaul  the  other  two.  Then,  then  if  he  did 
perish  in  the  Desert,  he  would  not  have  perished 
for  naught!  It  was  then,  the  earth  performed 
the  acrobatic  feat  of  heaving  up,  and  he  fell! 


ALL  TRACKS  POINT  ONE  WAY          237 

.This  time,  he  knew  he  had  fallen.  It  was  no 
trip.  He  was  down  and  out  and  done  for;  and 
he  knew  it.  He  rose  to  his  knees  steadying  him 
self  on  his  Service  axe.  Then,  it  came  again, 
the  silver  strip  of  mountain  on  the  sky  line  with 
the  cool  lakes  and  the  blue  haze,  and  her  face, 
the  face  in  the  Watts'  picture  of  "the  Happy 
Warrior,7'  weaving  the  spell,  receding  from  him, 
drawing  him  with  the  love  light  in  her  eyes  and 
the  passion  kiss  on  her  lips,  beckoning,  beckon 
ing;  he  would  rise  and  follow  her  from  the  dead 
if  she  beckoned  with  that  light  in  her  eyes.  She 
was  receding  not  along  the  trail  of  the  fleeing 
Desert  runners,  but  down  the  dragged  track  of 
the  body  that  had  crawled  to  the  foot  of  a  sand 
bank.  Wayland  never  knew  whether  he  stag 
gered  or  crept  down  the  trail  of  the  dragged 
body  away  from  the  hoof  prints  of  the  drovers7 
horses  across  the  alkali  sink;  but  between  him 
and  the  silver  strip  of  mountain  on  the  far  sky 
line,  above  the  yellow  sand  so  hot  to  his  palms, 
beckoned  her  face,  the  love  light  in  her  eyes, 
weaving  the  spell.  Then  the  coyote  had 
bounded  into  the  air,  and  the  red-combed  Desert 
condors,  the  scavengers  of  an  outcast  world,  rose 
from  their  quarry;  and  Wayland,  fevered,  deliri 
ous,  laughing,  crying,  kneeled  over  the  body  of 
a  man  lying  on  his  face  with  his  bloody  hand 
clutched  in  death  grip  round  an  upright  post 
driven  into  the  alkali  bottoms,  a  post  with  a  drink 
ing  cup  hung  on  the  notched  crotch,  the  Desert 


238     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

sign  of  a  water  spring  beneath  the  drifted  sands. 

Wayland  pushed  the  body  aside.  The  man's 
face  was  red-smeared.  He  was  dead.  Wayland 
had  to  unlock  the  clutched  fingers  from  the  post. 
Somewhere,  from  the  submerged  consciousness 
of  forgotten  college  lore  came  memory  that  the 
water  table  lay  ten  feet  deep  beneath  the  Desert 
silt.  The  Ranger  slid  down  the  sand  drift  and 
was  chopping,  hacking,  digging,  into  the  side  of 
the  bank,  thanking  God ;  God  was  on  the  job  after 
all;  scooping  the  sand  drift  out  with  his  naked 
hand,  burrowing  at  the  earth  as  the  animals  of 
the  wilderness-struggle  tear  in  maddened  thirst 
for  the  hidden  life  beneath  the  sand  death. 
He  heard  the  suck  and  gurgle  of  the  water,  not 
the  joyous  silver  laugh  of  Northern  springs,  but 
the  sullen  coming  of  water  compelled;  and  his 
lips  were  at  the  sand;  drinking,  drinking,  drink 
ing.  Then,  he  suddenly  remembered  her  face. 
He  looked  up.  Gone  the  silver  strip  of  shining 
mountain;  gone  the  mirage  of  the  crystal  pool; 
darkness,  velvet  pansy  darkness  of  the  Desert 
night;  and  an  earth  bat  winged  past  his  face. 
Even  as  he  drank  he  felt  the  puff  and  whirl  of 
the  wind  rising ;  he  laughed.  He  felt  the  cool  wa 
ter  trickle  and  settle  and  pool  in  the  sand  hole. 
Then  he  laved  his  temples  and  wrists,  and  laughed 
softly,  and  called  a  low  long  tremulous  call;  that 
foolish  Saxon  word  he  had  told  her  to  look  up  in 
the  dictionary. 

The  wind  might  blow  great  guns,  and  wipe  out 


ALL  TRACKS  POINT  ONE  WAY          239 

the  fugitive  trail.  He  would  go  no  farther.  The 
wind  would  attend  to  the  other  two  men.  He 
had  found  water:  he  had  found  life.  God  had 
played  the  trick;  and  he  had  not  trumped  the 
ace;  four  of  the  six  outlaws  dead,  and  the  last 
two  hastening  to  the  alkali  death  across  the 
Desert  sands.  He  drank  again,  this  time  from 
the  cup,  sip  by  sip,  slowly,  then  in  deep  draughts 
of  God-given  waters. 

He  didn't  thank  God  in  so  many  words,  or  in 
testimony  to  pass  muster  at  a  prayer  meeting; 
but  he  paused  twice  on  his  way  back  to  the  saline 
sink  to  say:  "He's  on  the  job.  You  bet  He's 
on  the  job!"  He  spent  the  rest  of  the  week 
nursing  the  old  frontiersman  back  to  life. 


PART  II 
THE  MAN  HIQHEE  UP 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WITHOUT   MALICE 

The  Senator  sat  in  his  office  with  his  hat  on 
the  hack  of  his  head  and  a  U.  S.  Geological  Sur 
vey  map  spread  out  on  the  desk  in  front  of  him. 
Bat  stood  sleepily  at  attention  on  the  other  side 
of  the  desk  with  his  hat  in  his  hand.  It  was  a 
sweltering  July  afternoon  in  Smelter  City,  the 
air  athrob  with  the  derricks  and  the  trucks  and 
the  cranes  and  the  pulleys  and  the  steam  hoists 
and  the  cable  car  tramway  run  up  and  down 
the  face  of  Coal  Hill  by  natural  gravitation. 
The  light  was  dusky  yellow  from  the  smelter 
smoke;  and  loafers  round  the  transcontinental 
railroad  station  across  the  street  chose  the  shady 
side  of  the  building,  where  they  sat  swinging 
their  legs  from  the  platform  and  aiming  tobacco 
juice  with  regularity  and  precision  in  the  exact 
centre  of  the  gray  dusty  road. 

The  Senator  wore  a  pair  of  pince  nez  glasses. 
He  looked  up  over  the  top  of  them  through  the 
yellow  sun-light  of  the  open  street  door. 

"  Declare,  Brydges,  the  damned  rascals  are  too 
lazy  to  brush  the  flies  off,"  he  observed  of  the 
brigade  of  loafers  across  the  street. 

243 


244  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Bat  threw  a  glance  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
coterie  of  loafers,  and  brought  his  drowsy  tor 
toise-shell  glance  back  to  the  map  lying  before 
the  Senator. 

' 'I  guess  the  flies  won't  bother  'em  long  as 
they  vote  right,  Mr.  Senator." 

Moyese  was  slowly  turning  and  turning  the 
thick  stub  of  a  crayon  pencil  between  his  thumb 
and  fore  finger.  Bat  knew  that  trick  of  absent- 
minded  motion  always  presaged  senatorial  ser 
monizing,  just  as  the  soft  laugh  down  in  the 
crinkles  of  the  white  vest  forewarned  danger. 
("When  I  see  the  tummy  wrinkles  coming,  I  al 
ways  feel  like  telling  the  other  fellow  to  get  the 
button  off  his  fencing  sword — You  bet  that  means 
business,"  Bat  often  confided  to  the  news- 
editor.) 

"Brydges,  this  country  is  rapidly  lining  up 
two  opposing  sides :  fighting  lines,  too,  by  George ! 
Mobocracy  versus  Plutocracy!  I'm  only  a  cog 
in  the  wheel,  myself,  a  mere  marker  for  the  big 
counters,  my  boy;  but  if  I  have  to  put  up  with 
the  tyranny  of  one  or  t'other,  I'm  damned  if 
I  don't  prefer  the  tyranny  of  the  rich  to  the 
tyranny  of  the  poor,  any  day !  Why,  is  any  man 
poor  in  this  country,  Brydges?  Because  he's  a 
damned  incompetent  unfit  swinish  hog,  too  lazy 
to  plant  and  hoe  his  own  row;  so  he  gets  the 
husks  of  the  corn  while  the  competent  man  gets 
the  cob — the  cob  with  the  corn  on,  you  bet,  num 
ber  one,  Silver  King,  Hard,  seventy  cents  a 


WITHOUT  MALICE  245 

bushel!  If  I  have  to  put  up  with  one  or  t'other, 
I'm  damned  if  I  don't  prefer  the  tyranny  of 
knowledge  to  the  tyranny  of  ignorance!  One 
butters  your  bread,  anyway,  and  sometimes  puts 
some  jam  on  with  the  butter.  The  other  snivels 
and  whines  and  begs  a  crust  from  the  other  fel 
low's  table,  and  snaps  at  the  hand  that  gives  him 
the  crust,  and  spends  the  time  in  self-pity  that 
he  should  spend  in  work!  Look  at  that  row  of 
free-born  American  citizens,  kings  in  disguise, 
Brydges !  Not  a  damned  man  of  them  ever  did  a 
stroke  of  honest  work  in  his  life  except  on  elec 
tion  day,  when  we  line  'em  up;  and  damn  it, 
aren't  we  right,  to  line  'em  up?  What  kind  of 
rule  are  you  going  to  get  from  that  kind  of  ruler- 
ship  if  some  one  doesn't  jump  in  and  group  it 
and  direct  it;  yes,  by  George,  and  compel  it  to 
keep  in  line  and  vote  right,  just  as  a  general 
licks  his  recruits  in  shape  on  pain  of  court  mar 
tial?  Think  any  battle  would  ever  be  won, 
Brydges,  if  the  commanding  officer  hadn't  the 
power  of  a  despot?  He  makes  mistakes.  Of 
course,  he  makes  mistakes!  So  do  we!  But 
we're  keeping  those  damned  rascals  in  line  for 
the  good  of  the  country;  and  so,  I  say,  the  plu 
tocrats  who  are  being  cursed  from  one  end  of 
the  country  to  the  other  to-day,  are  playing  the 
same  part  in  modern  life  as  the  big  war  chiefs 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  They  are  marshalling  the 
forces;  leading  the  advance;  conquering  the 
countries  with  commerce  that  the  old  war  chiefs 


246  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

used  to  conquer  with  arms;  building  up,  con 
structing,  amassing,  concentrating  in  trust  and 
combine  all  the  scattered  abilities  of  men,  who 
would  be  powerless  individually;  and  we  use 
our  tools,  that  parcel  of  beauties  out  there,  same 
as  the  old  war  chiefs  used  their  blackguard  mer 
cenaries!  It's  cheaper  for  us  to  buy  'em  than 
be  bossed  by  'em,  a  darn  sight  cheaper,  Brydges ; 
for  us  to  swing  'em  into  a  bunch  and  control 
'em  than  be  blackmailed  by  'em,  Brydges!  If 
every  penny  grafter  didn't  hold  up  the  corpora 
tion,  every  damned  little  squirt  of  a  county 
supervisor  and  road  contractor  and  town  coun 
cilman,  if  they  didn't  hold  the  corporation  up 
for  blackmail  way  the  highwaymen  of  old  used 
to  hold  up  the  lone  traveller,  if  they  didn't  hold 
us  up  for  blackmail,  Brydges,  it  wouldn't  be 
necessary  for  us  to  man  that  gang  across  the 
way  on  voting  day ! 

4 'Freedom,  pah!"  The  Senator  had  stopped 
swirling  the  stub  pencil.  He  reached  forward 
to  a  jar  of  roses  on  his  desk.  "Equality? 
Pah!  Dream  of  fools,  Brydges!  Doesn't  exist! 
Never  did  exist!  Never  can  exist!  Know  how 
we  develop  Silver  King  Corn  that  gives  ninety 
bushels  to  the  acre  instead  of  old  thirty  bushel 
yield?" 

Bat  had  sat  down,  still  sleepily  watchful 
through  the  tortoise-shell  eyes,  but  a  bit  wilted 
in  the  heat.  Some  of  the  men  swinging  cordu 
roy  and  blue  jean  legs  from  the  station  platform 


WITHOUT  MALICE  247 

evidently  perpetrated  a  pleasantry ;  for  there  was 
a  loud  guffaw,  and  a  shower  of  tobacco  wads 
into  the  middle  of  the  road. 

"Know  how  we  get  high  grade  corn,  high  grade 
rose  like  this  American  Beauty:  in  fact,  high 
grade  anything?  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  It's  the 
same  process  that  brings  out  high  grade  men. 
You  go  into  a  field  of  corn.  You  pick  out  best 
specimens.  You  keep  that  for  seed,  special  care, 
special  fine  ground,  special  careful  cultivation. 
You  let  the  others  go,  feed  'em  to  the  hogs,  un 
derstand,  Bat?  It's  the  same  with  the  roses, 
and  the  same  with  men;  and  now  where 's  your 
fine  theory  of  all  men  equal?" 

As  Bat  did  not  care  to  remind  the  Senator  that 
his  own  career  from  the  ghetto  up  contradicted 
all  this  fine  philosophy,  he  left  the  question  un 
answered. 

Moyese  pushed  the  glasses  up  on  his  nose  and 
returned  to  the  map. 

"How  many  homesteaders  did  you  succeed  in 
nabbing  out  of  that  last  train-load?" 

"About  a  hundred,  Senator!  I've  got  the 
list  of  'em  here  .  .  .  haven't  counted,  but 
think  it  will  tally  up  about  a  hundred." 

"What  are  they,  Germans?" 

"No,  Swedes." 

Moyese  laughed.  "Thrifty  beggars  will  job 
round  and  earn  double  while  they're  operating 
for  us!  Got  good  big  families,  Bat?" 

It  was  the  turn  of  the  handy  man  to  laugh. 


248  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

"I  filed  one  fellow  and  eight  kids  for  one  hun 
dred  and  sixty  acres  each." 

"You  didn't  contract  to  pay  each  of  the  little 
olive  branches  three-hundred?" 

"Lord,  no!  If  the  dad  sits  tight  till  we  prove 
up  entry,  he's  to  get  three-hundred!  No  fear 
of  his  blabbing.  He  can't  speak  a  word  of  Eng 
lish;  and  when  I  told  the  woman,  through  the 
interpreter  that  we  pay  their  fare  out  and  each 
of  the  kids  would  get  a  five,  why,  she  kissed  my 
hand  and  slobbered  gratitude  all  over  me." 

"Wayland  won't  be  quite  so  grateful  for  that 
bunch." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  file  that  batch  in  the  N.  F.  You 
bet,  that's  a  little  too  obvious!  I  put  'em  in  the 
Pass,  lower  end  of  the  Pass,  not  by  a  damn  sight, 
I  didn't  put  'em  in  the  N.  F. !  I  thought  Smelter 
people  wanted  us  to  secure  that  Pass  for  a  dam ; 
and  I  bunched  'em  all  in  just  above  the  Sheriff's 
place!" 

"That's  good!  The  Sheriff  proves  up  this 
year;  and  if  you  get  this  bunch  in  behind,  that 
corks  the  Pass  up  pretty  effectually !  Where  are 
the  bounds  of  the  Forest  there  ? ' ' 

Bat  drew  his  fore-finger  along  the  map. 
"Along  the  red  line,  here:  just  to  the  trail 
through  the  canyon." 

' l  Good :  now  what  about  the  timber  claim  along 
the  Gully?  That's  in  the  Forests,  Brydges.  I 
want  to  force  a  contest  on  that;  the  Swede  fel- 


WITHOUT  MALICE  249 

low  has  cut  the  logs  under  his  permit;  but  I'd  like 
to  make  that  doubly  sure  before  we  go  to  trial. 
If  we  can  get  a  double  cinch  on  that,  we'll  knock 
the  claim  of  the  Forestry  Department  to  keep 
homesteaders  out  into  a  cocked  hat." 

Bat's  sleepy  eyes  emitted  sparks  and  his  good 
natured  smile  widened  to  an  open  grin. 

"The  Swede  happened  to  use  a  U.  S.  Forest 
hatchet  when  he  cut  those  logs,"  he  said.  "I 
told  him  to  be  sure  and  stamp  the  butt  end  of 
each  log  U.  S.,  duly  inspected,"  he  said. 

Moyese  dropped  the  map  and  the  pencil  and 
his  heavy  hand  with  a  thud  on  the  desk  and 
laughed  noiselessly  down  into  the  creases  of  his 
fat  double  chin  and  into  the  wrinkling  rotundity 
of  his  white  vest. 

"And  to  cinch  it,"  continued  Brydges,  "as  the 
fellow's  permit  didn't  cover  the  Gully,  I  got  some 
blanket  railway  scrip  for  an  Irishman,  O'Finni- 
gan,  Shanty  Town,  and  planked  it  on  the  Gully. 
You  see,  Senator,  by  law  the  settlers  can  go  in 
on  the  National  Forests  wherever  it  has  been 
surveyed  and  declared  agricultural  land;  but 
they  can't  go  in  and  get  title  till  it  is  surveyed 
and  passed.  But  you  can  plaster  the  railway 
scrip  where  it  is  unsurveyed.  That's  the  little 
joker  somebody  tucked  in  when  the  scrip  rail 
way  act  was  passed.  I  guess  by  the  time  they 
have  red-taped  and  trapesed  round  and  wrangled 
those  two  tangles  of  title  out,  the  logs  will  be 


250     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

safe  down  the  Eiver;  and  I  guess  that  will  about 
see  the  finish  of  Wayland  before  the  coal  cases 
come  up — " 

' 'That's  it,  Brydges."  Moyese  had  lowered 
his  voice.  "What  about  Wayland?  Have  you 
found  out  anything?  Where  the  devil  is  he? 
He  isn't  on  his  patrol!  He  hasn't  been  at  the 
Eidge  for  three  weeks.  He  hasn't  been  at  the 
Kidge  since  I  left  for  Washington.  If  we  could 
prove  how  he's  been  using  Government  time," 
he  paused  to  reflect.  "That  might  be  shortest 
way  out !  Did  you  find  out  anything  at  the  Mac- 
Donald  Ranch?" 

Bat  threw  a  precautionary  glance  over  his 
shoulder  towards  the  door  opening  on  the  street. 
Then  he  rose,  walked  across  the  office,  shut  the 
door,  came  back  and  drawing  his  chair  close  to 
the  desk  opposite  the  Senator,  sat  down  astride 
with  his  feet  tucked  back  one  round  each  hind 
leg. 

"Yes,  I  did;  and  no  again,  I  didn't!  It's  just 
as  it  may  strike  you!  As  a  news  man,  I  know 
how  this  kind  of  yarn  would  be  taken  by  the 
public." 

* '  Oh,  come  on  with  it,  Brydges ! ' '  Moyese  had 
pushed  back  and  was  holding  the  edge  of  the 
desk  with  his  hands.  Mr.  Bat  Brydges  recog 
nized  that  while  the  creases  of  good-nature 
crinkled  at  the  chin,  the  jaws  and  the  hands  had 
locked. 

"Your  newsman  got  this  despatch  from  Mine 


WITHOUT  MALICE  251 

City:  you  see  it's  pretty  vague:  ' bodies  of  two 
men  found  forty  miles  from  branch  of  P.  &  0. 
Line,  thought  to  be  drovers  overcome  by  heat 
and  thirst.'  I  wired  for  more  particulars;  but 
the  railway  hands  had  shovelled  the  bodies 
under." 

"Brydges,"  interrupted  Moyese  sharply,  "I'm 
going  to  tell  you  something;  and  you  put  it  in 
your  pipe  and  smoke  it;  and  don't  waste  time 
running  off  on  false  clues.  You  leave  that  to 
women  and  sissies — to  the  she-male  man!  Now 
listen,  a  man  can't  lose  himself  in  the  Desert: 
He  can't  lose  himself  in  the  Wilderness.  If  he's 
a  damphool,  he  can  get  lost,  but  he  can't  lose  him 
self,  he  can't  hide  in  the  wilderness,  not  ever! 
He  can  lose  himself  in  a  city  in  one  week.  He 
could  drop  out  of  sight  right  here  in  Smelter  City ; 
but  he  can't  go  into  the  wilds  and  not  come  out 
again  and  people  not  know  it.  Somebody  sees 
him  go  in,  and  somebody  doesn't  see  him  come 
out ;  and  there  you  are !  It 's  the  same  in  the  wilds 
as  at  the  North  Pole:  you  can't  cook  up  a  fake. 
Man  who  goes  into  the  wilds  is  a  marked  man  till 
he  comes  out.  Every  man,  who  meets  him,  takes 
a  turn  round  to  look  at  him;  and  he's  going  to 
keep  looking  till  the  fellow  comes  out.  Now,  you 
take  this  case.  Wayland  had  on  his  Service 
Badge.  If  he  had  been  one  of  those  two,  the  fact 
would  have  been  flashed  right  down  to  Washing 
ton.  Now  tell  me  facts,  not  rumors ;  exactly  what 
did  you  find  out?" 


252  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

When  his  chief  began  in  that  dictatorial 
fashion,  Bat  let  his  facts  go  in  a  running  fire : 

"Well,  Flood  saw  him  with  his  own  eyes  go 
ing  up  the  Pass  with  that  old  Canadian  duffer 
the  morning,  the  morning,"  Bat  paused,  mani 
festly  unable  to  specify  which  morning. 

"Yes,  the  morning  after,"  added  the  soft,  even 
voice  of  Moyese.  "And  the  snow  slide  filled  the 
Pass  up  to  the  neck,  forty-eight  hours  later. 
Yes,  I  know ;  but  Wayland  was  too  good  a  moun 
tain  man  to  be  caught  by  a  slide." 

"I  told  Flood  to  get  out  and  examine  that 
slide,  anyway!  He  said  'twasn't  any  use,  this 
hot  weather  would  clean  it  up  in  a  couple  of 
weeks.  He  was  going  up  the  Pass  when  I  left 
for  the  Valley  yesterday." 

"What  did  you  find  out  at  the  Bidge?" 

"That's  where  the  milk  is  in  this  cocoanut," 
answered  Bat.  "He  hasn't  passed  one  night  at 
the  Eidge  since  the  night  we  were  all  up!  You 
remember  who  was  at  the  Cabin,  night  we  went 
up!  Well,  keep  that  in  mind;  when  I  went 
across  to  MacDonald's  Eanch  to  express  your 
regret  over  this  accident,  found  old  man  wasn't 
home.  He's  expected  back  from  the  Upper  Pass 
by  train  this  week:  seems  he  has  been  arrang 
ing  new  grazing  ground  for  another  herd  up 
there.  You  know  how  MacDonald  house  is 
laid  out?  Big  room  as  you  enter;  then  a  sort 
of  back  sitting  room  for,"  Bat  smiled  queerly, 
a  smile  that  said  nothing,  yet  subterraneously 


WITHOUT  MALICE  253 

conveyed  out  to  daylight  one  of  those  under  cur 
rents  of  thought  that  flows  only  in  the  dark, 
"for  the  lady.  Well,  sir,  chill  blasts  of  North 
Pole  were  tropical  zephyrs  compared  to  what  I 
got  from  that  MacDonald  gurl." 

"I  thought  her  name  was  Miss  MacDonald," 
suggested  the  Senator,  softly.  He  had  lowered 
his  chin  and  was  looking  over  his  eye  glasses  at 
Brydges. 

' i  Hold  on,  Mr.  Senator !  I  am  coming  to  that ! 
Her  father  has  been  away  a  month.  I  found  out 
from  Calamity  and  the  road  gang  that  Wayland 
hasn't  been  at  the  Cabin  since  that  night  I  was 
there;  and  Gee  Whittiker,"  Brydges  laughed 
sleepily,  the  same  smile  that  said  nothing  but 
came  up  from  the  subterranean  under  current, 
"he  ivas  a  bear  with  a  sore  head  that  night;  spent 
most  of  the  night  prancing  the  Eidge.  Well,  a 
fellow  can't  exactly  stand  on  one  leg  and  then 
on  t'other  all  through  a  call.  She  didn't  ask 
me  to  sit  down.  Said  her  father  was  coming 
home  by  Smelter  City  and  you  could  have  the 
pleasure  of  conveying  your  sympathy  personally : 
kept  standing  herself  all  the  time;  kept  looking 
from  me  to  the  door.  Well,  sir,  while  she  was 
looking  through  the  door  behind  me,  I  was  look 
ing  through  the  door  behind  her."  And  as  Bat 
said  it,  he  looked  away.  "  Wayland 's  Eange 
coat  was  hanging  in  that  inner  room." 

Bat  smiled  slowly  and  sleepily;  then  openly 
grinned  as  who  should  say  "now  the  cat  is  out"; 


254     FEEEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

but  when  lie  turned  to  Moyese,  his  chief  had 
whirled  in  the  swing  chair  and  was  sitting  with 
hands  clasped  under  his  hat,  and  the  back  of  his 
head  towards  Brydges. 

A  glossy  smile  had  come  over  Bat's  face  that 
is  not  good  to  see  on  man,  woman,, child  or  beast; 
and  it  is  the  same  kind  of  smile  on  all  four,  not 
laughter,  nor  light,  not  definite  enough  to  be 
malicious,  nor  pointed  enough  to  be  self  accusa 
tory,  nor  direct  enough  to  be  challenged  and  re 
pudiated;  a  smile  untellably  familiar — a  Satyr- 
faced  thought  looking  through  a  veil,  somehow 
sinuously  suggestive,  saying  nothing  at  all,  yet 
conveying  the  physical  sensation  of  pus  from  an 
ulcerous  thing;  and  strangely  enough,  there  are 
blow-fly  natures  that  prefer  pus  to  nectar. 

If  Brydges  had  not  been  so  absorbed  in  the 
jocularity  of  his  own  sensations,  he  would  have 
observed  that  his  chief  remained  singularly 
silent. 

"Oh,  I  don't  suppose  he's  there  all  this  time." 
Bat  rushed  to  the  defence  of  the  absent,  (Heaven 
bless  such  defenders).  "That  old  Canadian  duf 
fer,  who  seems  to  have  hitched  up  with  him  on 
the  Eim  Eocks  accident,  your  ranch  foreman  saw 
'em  pass  together  at  noon;  tried  to  telephone 
4 Herald,'  but  I  choked  that  off;  that  old  fellow 
once  wrote  our  paper  to  know  about  Canadian 
settlers  here.  He  recognized  Calamity  and 
talked  about  old  North  West  Eebellion  days. 
It's  my  theory  he's  here  about  something  that's 


WITHOUT  MALICE  255 

been  hushed  up!  Like  dad,  like  daughter, "  Bat 
pronounced. 

"It's  my  theory  when  MacDonald  comes  back 
from  the  Upper  Pass,  Wayland  and  the  old  fel 
low  will  turn  up  about  the  same  time.  Haven't 
been  able  to  learn  what  it  is;  but  I'll  bet  dollars 
to  doughnuts,  they  are  all  absent  on  the  same 
trail.  If  we  let  go  a  broadside,  they'll  have  to 
come  out  with  the  truth  to  shut  us  off;  and  there 
is  where  we  are  going  to  get  him;  see?  I've  got 
another  theory,  too." 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  Senator,  without 
turning. 

"It  is,  if  he  sees  we're  going  to  involve  her, 
he'll  quit." 

Moyese  didn't  answer.  He  rose  from  his  chair 
and  walked  to  a  rear  window,  where  he  stood 
looking  out.  Did  he  credit  what  he  had  heard? 
Was  it  a  recital  of  facts,  or  a  distortion  of  facts 
through  a  tainted  mind?  Did  Brydges,  himself, 
believe  what  he  had  tried  to  convey?  Or  was 
his  job  to  obtain  certain  results  at  any  cost:  and 
was  this  part  of  the  cost?  Ask  yourself  that  of 
the  tainted  news  you  read  every  day.  Ask  why 
those  who  recognize  the  lie  do  not  brand  it  as 
such;  why  those  who  are  uncertain  do  not  verify 
before  they  repeat  and  credit ;  and  you  will  prob 
ably  have  some  clue  to  the  little  melodrama  of 
dishonor  enacted  in  the  office  of  a  legal  luminary 
at  Smelter  City  that  sweltering  hot  July  day. 
When  you  come  to  observe  it,  Bat's  recital  con- 


256  FREEBOOTERS  OP  THE  WILDERNESS 

tained  nothing  that  might  not  have  been  posted 
in  eminent  respectability  on  a  church  warden's 
door.  Like  fresh  fruit  passed  through  a  mouldy 
cellar,  the  facts  came  from  the  medium  of  the 
narrator  with  the  unclean  contagion  of  cellar 
mould.  The  next  narrator  would  not  pass  on  the 
facts.  He  would  pass  on  the  cellar  rot. 

"If  we  served  up  those  two  stories  together 
hot,"  emphasized  Bat,  "we'd  about  cut  the 
throat  of  any  opposition  to  our  interests  in  the 
Valley!  He'd  quit!  I'll  bet  before  he'd  see  her 
involved,  he'd  jump  his  job!" 

When  the  Senator  turned  his  face  to  the  handy 
man,  he  was  very  sober.  He  stood  looking  over 
the  tops  of  his  glasses  boring  into  Bat's  face. 

"It's  a  pity,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  it's  too  bad:  one  hates  to  have  one's 
faith  in  human  nature  all  balled  out  this  way; 
but  you  never  know  what  kind  of  a  fact  you're 
going  ping  up  against  where  a  woman  is  con 
cerned."  Something  in  the  Senator's  look 
stopped  Bat  mid-way. 

"Brydges,  I  thought  I  told  you  never  to  med 
dle  with  the  damphool  who  makes  excuses  for 
what  he's  going  to  do.  Never  do  anything,  un 
less  you  have  some  end  worth  while  in  view; 
then,  if  it's  worth  while,  do  it,  damn  it,  and  don't 
waste  time  excusing  the  means!  Now,  I'll  have 
nothing  to  do  with  this;  mind  that,  Brydges. 
You  do  it  off  your  own  responsibility.  If  Mac- 
Donald  were  one  of  our  party,  I  wouldn't  make 


WITHOUT  MALICE  257 

use  of  it,  if  it  were  ten  times  over  and  over  true. 
You'll  have  to  be  very  careful  how  you  use  that, 
at  all!  It's  effective.  I  don't  deny  it's  very  ef 
fective;  but  it's  a  pity!  If  you  use  that  at  all, 
you'll  have  to  use  it  so  it's  not  libelous." 

"Libelous?"  burst  out  the  handy  man  waken 
ing  up  suddenly,  scratching  his  tousled  head  and 
trying  to  make  head  or  tail  of  orders  that  said 
'do  it'  and  l don't  do  it'  in  one  breath.  "I  can 
write  it  without  a  name  so  every  man  in  the 
State  will  know  who  it  is :  give  it  as  a  joke ;  fetch 
in  Calamity  as  the  mother  of  the  whole  mess ;  the 
call  of  the  blood,  you  know;  reversion  to  type! 
They'll  have  to  prove  that  the  intent  was  malice 
before  they  can  get  a  judgment.  They'll  have 
to  come  out  with  the  truth  before  they  can  prove 
libel.  It  isn't  libelous  if  it's  done  as  a  joke  with 
out  malice." 

Moyese  had  flung  himself  down  in  his  chair 
with  a  blow  of  his  clenched  fist  on  the  desk,  when 
the  opening  of  the  office  door  stopped  the  oath 
of  disgust  on  his  lips;  and  Eleanor  MacDonald 
stood  framed  in  the  yellow  light  shining  in  from 
the  hot  street.  For  a  moment,  the  transition 
from  sun  to  shade  blinded  her.  Then,  she  saw 
who  was  with  the  Senator.  Brydges  sprang  up 
waiting  to  return  her  recognition.  She  made  no 
sign.  She  walked  over  where  he  was  standing. 
The  Senator  had  half  risen  from  his  desk.  Was 
it  the  spirit  of  the  ancestral  Indian  in  her  eyes; 
or  of  the  Man  with  the  Iron  Hand  ?  Brydges '  oily 


258  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

gloss  went  to  tallow  under  her  look.  Moyese 
knew  looks  that  drilled;  and  Brydges  himself 
could  bore  behind  for  motives ;  but  this  look  was 
not  a  drill :  it  was  a  Search  Light ;  and  the  handy 
man — well,  perhaps,  it  was  the  heat — the  handy 
man  suddenly  wilted. 

"You  can  go,  Brydges,"  ordered  Moyese. 

"All  right!  See  you  again  about  that,  Sena 
tor  I"  Brydges  grabbed  up  the  loose  notes  from 
the  desk  and  bolted,  banging  the  door  behind  him. 

The  Senator's  face  seemed  at  once  to  age  and 
trench  with  lines.  He  motioned  her  to  the 
vacated  chair  and  remained  bending  forward 
over  his  desk  till  she  had  seated  herself.  Then, 
he  sat  down,  suddenly  remembered  his  hat,  and 
laid  it  off.  If  she  had  sunk  forward  on  the  desk 
weeping;  if  she  had  made  a  sign  of  appeal;  he 
would  have  gone  round  and  caressed  her  and 
petted  her  and  told  her  she  must  stop  Wayland. 
His  whole  manhood  went  out  to  comfort  her,  to 
stand  between  her  and  what?  .  .  .  Was  it 
the  drive  of  those  wheels  of  which  he  was  a  cog? 
But  when  she  looked  across  the  desk,  the  eyes 
had  no  appeal,  the  Search  Light  had  turned  on 
him. 

"You  must  excuse  me  if  you  heard  what  I  was 
saying,  when  you  came  in,  Miss  Eleanor;  but 
it  was  a  G —  doggon  lie !  I  had  been  angered :  I 
had  been  angered  very  much;  and  that's  a  bad 
thing  on  a  hot  day."  He  was  slipping  back  to 
the  usual  suavity. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

BALLOTS   FOR   BULLETS 

It  was  Calamity,  who  had  carried  the  trouble- 
making  coat  across  from  the  Mission  Library  to 
the  MacDonald  Eanch  House.  Eleanor  had 
found  it  in  the  big  living  room  that  day  after 
she  had  read  the  note  saying  he  was  setting  out 
"on  the  Long  Trail,  the  trail  this  Nation  will 
have  to  follow  before  Democracy  arrives;  the 
trail  of  the  Man  behind  the  Thing."  Somehow, 
she  lost  interest  in  her  reading  and  her  driving, 
and  spent  the  most  of  that  first  week  after  the 
funeral  in  the  steamer  chair  on  the  Ranch,  House 
piazza.  Were  the  topaz  gates  of  the  sunset  still 
ajar  to  a  new  infinite  life;  or  did  satyr  faces 
haunt  the  shadows  of  the  trail,  satyr  faces  of 
the  Greed  that  had  plotted  the  bloody  villainy 
of  the  Rim  Rocks?  She  had  thought  she  knew 
joy  before,  joy  that  rapt  her  from  life  in  a  race 
reverie.  Now,  she  knew  joy,  tense  as  pain;  and 
the  consciousness  never  left  her.  It  was  there; 
beside,  inside,  above,  all  round,  an  enveloping  at 
mosphere  to  everything  she  thought  and  said  and 
did.  She  could  not  read ;  for  while  her  eyes  passed 
over  the  lines,  that  consciousness  danced  in 

259 


260     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

flames  between  the  lines.  She  tried  to  forget 
herself  in  her  work — in  the  sorting  of  the 
littered  shelves,  in  the  mending  for  the  ranch 
hands  absent  with  her  father  in  the  Upper  Pass ; 
but  It  was  there  just  the  same,  at  her 
elbow;  in  behind  the  commonplace  weaving  rain 
bow  mists,  a  shadowy  deity  of  thought  all  perva 
sive  as  ether.  Before,  she  had  been  as  one  stand 
ing  in  front  of  the  up-lifted  veil.  Now,  she  knew 
she  had  passed  in  behind  the  veil,  and  could  not 
if  she  would  come  out  to  the  former  place.  Life 
symbols  empty  of  meaning  before,  suddenly  be 
came  allegorical  of  eternity — the  bridal  veil, 
the  orange  wreaths,  the  ring  typical  of  the 
infinite,  the  vows  of  service,  the  angel  of  the 
drawn  sword  on  the  back  trail.  Yet  she  knew  she 
had  promised  to  keep  him  resolute,  standing 
strong  to  his  work,  unflinching  because  of  her. 

It  was,  perhaps,  typical  of  those  ancestral  traits 
that  fear  for  him  never  once  entered  her  thoughts. 
His  work  was  on  the  firing  line;  and  had  she 
not  once  said  that  a  life  more  or  less  did  not  mat 
ter?  That  was  before  his  life  had  become  her 
life.  That  is,  fear  for  him  did  not  enter  her  wak 
ing  thoughts.  It  was  different  when  she  slept. 
Then  the  uncurbed  thoughts  hovered  like  the  face 
in  the  picture  of  "the  Sleeping  Warrior. "  One 
night  as  she  sat  in  the  steamer  chair,  a  cold  wind 
came  down  from  the  Pass.  The  cook  explained 
it  was  because  of  the  snow  slide  that  had  filled  up 
the  canyon. 


BALLOTS  FOR  BULLETS  261 

"Calamity,"  she  called,  "bring  me. out  some 
thing  to  put  round  my  shoulders;  don't  bring  a 
shawl :  I  hate  shawls ! ' ' 

And  Calamity,  perfectly  naturally,  brought  out 
Wayland's  coat.  Eleanor  did  not  laugh;  for  she 
knew  it  was  only  since  Calamity  had  stopped 
roving  the  Black  Hills  that  she  had  exchanged 
male  attire  for  the  Indian  woman's  insignia  of 
good  conduct,  a  shawl.  She  waited  till  Calamity 
had  pattered  down  to  the  basement.  Then,  she 
slipped  into  the  coat  with  a  queer  little  laugh 
that  would  have  played  havoc  with  Wayland's 
resolutions,  and  running  her  hands  up  the  long 
dangling  sleeve  ends,  lay  back  to  a  reverie  that 
could  hardly  be  called  thought.  It  was  conscious 
ness,  delirious  foolish  consciousness,  possible 
only  to  youth;  and  the  consciousness  slipped  into 
a  drowse  between  sleeping  and  waking.  It  was 
— where  was  it?  In  the  shadow  realms  of  won 
derful  dream  consciousness,  his  face,  the  face  in 
' i  the  Happy  Warrior ' ' ;  but  not  her  face :  instead 
was  the  evil  fellow  seen  that  night  in  the  storm 
on  the  Eim  Eocks  clubbing  his  gun  at  Fordie's 
pinto  pony  through  the  mists;  only  he  wasn't 
clubbing  it  at  Fordie;  he  was  aiming  at  Way- 
land  ;  and  there  was  the  white  horse.  She 
wakened  herself  with  her  cry.  That  happened 
to  be  the  night  Wayland  had  camped  in  the 
Desert  arroyos. 

One  afternoon,  Sheriff  Flood  had  called  to 
know  if  her  father  had  come  back  and  what  "he 


262  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

intended  to  do  about  it."  Incidentally,  he  men 
tioned  that  the  Forest  Eanger  had  gone  through 
the  Pass  that  led  to  the  Desert:  there  had  been 
a  snow  slide;  but  he  "guessed"  the  Eanger  was 
"too  cute  a  mountain  man  to  be  caught."  That 
night,  she  shivered  as  she  sat  in  the  steamer 
chair;  and  she  drew  Wayland's  coat  around  her; 
but  it  was  not  to  delirious  thoughts.  When  she 
fell  asleep,  she  saw  him  lying  on  his  face  in  the 
Desert;  and  she  called  him,  and  called  him,  and 
never  could  reach  him,  and  awakened  herself 
with  her  own  calling.  Wayland's  professional 
friend,  who  was  a  psychologist,  explained  both 
incidents  as  auto  suggestion  from  the  coat  awak 
ened  by  the  uneasiness  of  the  unconscious  fears; 
a-n  explanation  that  explains  by  saying  x  is  y. 

At  all  events,  she  never  again  used  the  coat; 
and  having  nothing  to  conceal,  didn't  conceal  it, 
which  is  the  most  damning  evidence  you  can  offer 
to  a  tortuous  mind.  She  hung  the  coat  in  the 
apartment  off  the  big  living  room.  Then,  the 
despatch  came  out  about  the  two  bodies  found 
in  the  Desert.  The  same  mail  brought  a  letter 
from  her  father  asking  her  to  meet  him  at 
Smelter  City;  and  there  at  the  Kanch  House  gate 
stood  Mr.  Bat  Brydges,  handy  man  of  the  Val 
ley,  quizzing  the  ranch  hands,  quizzing  the  Ger 
man  cook,  quizzing  Calamity  at  the  very  foot  of 
rustic  slab  steps  that  ran  up  from  the  basement. 

"What  is  he  after,  Calamity?" 


BALLOTS  FOR  BULLETS  263 

The  half  breed  woman  had  dashed  up  the  back 
stairs  to  Eleanor's  room. 

"He  want  t'  know  if  Waylan — Eanga  fellah — 
has  ever  stay  here,  dis  house — he  ever  go  back 
Cabin  House — tepee  on  hill — night  dey  keel 
leetle  boy?" 

Even  then,  Eleanor  did  not  realize  the  drift 
of  the  handy  man's  activities.  She  thought  per 
haps,  he,  too,  might  be  anxious  about  Wayland. 

"What  did  you  tell  him,  Calami ty!" 

"I  tell  heem,"  Calamity  dropped  her  soft 
patois  to  a  guttural,  "I  tell  heem,  y'  go  Hell!" 

"Ca — lam — ity?"  rebuked  Eleanor. 

But  what  was  it  in  the  gentleman's  jaunty  air, 
in  the  smile  of  the  sleepy  tortoise-shell  eyes,  in 
the  play  of  a  self-conscious  dimple  round  the  fat 
double  chin?  Eleanor  had  not  passed  from  her 
own  apartment  to  the  big  living  room  before  a 
repulsion  that  she  could  not  define  swept  over 
her  in  a  physical  shudder;  and  Mr.  Bat  Brydges' 
report  to  the  Senator  of  that  interview  had  been 
fairly  accurate.  She  did  not  know  that  she  had 
not  greeted  him  with  the  common  courtesy  due 
a  caller,  that  she  had  stood  looking  past  him  to 
the  open  door,  that  she  had  left  him  standing- 
first  on  one  leg  then  on  the  other  till  Bat  had 
been  forced  to  terminate  the  interview;  and  she 
had  not  the  faintest  conception  of  what  her  own 
feeling  of  repulsion  meant.  He  had  scarcely 
gone  before  she  wished  she  had  asked  him  about 


264  FREEBOOTERS  OP  THE  WILDERNESS 

those  two  bodies  found  in  the  Desert.  As  a  mat 
ter  of  fact,  she  called  up  the  i  i  Smelter  City  Inde 
pendent.  "  The  editor  could  give  her  no  details. 
He  asked  her  very  particularly  who  was  inquir 
ing;  and  having  nothing  to  conceal,  she  did  not 
conceal  it.  He  allayed  her  fears  in  almost  the 
words  that  the  Senator  had  used  to  lay  Bat's 
suspicions,  if  the  bodies  had  been  those  of  Gov 
ernment  men,  the  Banger's  Badge  would  have 
been  found  and  the  news  flashed  all  over  America. 

6 1  Oh,  thank  you,  so  much !  You  know  the  sheep 
lost  on  the  Eim  Kocks  belonged  to  our  ranch; 
and  I  wouldn't  like  to  think  that  he  had  lost  his 
life  defending  our  interests." 

Then  something  odd  occurred  with  the  tele 
phone.  She  distinctly  heard  the  voice  at  the 
other  end  telling  somebody  that,  "Brydges  was 
up  there  now."  Then,  the  voice  was  assuring 
her,  i  i  They  would  let  her  know  if  they  heard  any 
thing  more." 

Eleanor  rang  off  with  a  sense  of  relief;  and 
yet  with  a  sickening  feeling,  of  what?  It  was 
the  same  feeling  she  had  had  when  Brydges  came 
in  with  his  jaunty  air. 

She  was  standing  at  the  Eanch  House  gate 
waiting  for  the  stage  to  Smelter  City.  Calamity 
had  carried  down  the  yellow  suit  case.  The 
words  came  from  Eleanor's  lips  before  she 
thought;  or  she  could  never  have  asked  the  ques 
tion; 


BALLOTS  FOR  BULLETS  265 

"  Calamity,  who  was  it  took  your  little  baby 
away?" 

The  suit  case  fell  from  the  Indian  woman's 
hand. 

"D'  pries ',"  she  said,  " Father  Moran." 

Eleanor  thought  a  moment,  racking  her  mem 
ory  in  vain  for  that  name  in  her  convent  life 
of  Quebec.  She  was  digging  her  toe  in  the  dust 
of  the  road. 

"Was  that  before  or  after  you  went  to  the 
Black  Hills,  Calamity!" 

But  Calamity  had  gone  without  a  word;  and 
the  stage  came  whipping  across  the  bridge  from 
the  Moyese  Ranch;  a  double-tandem  stage  driven 
by  a  bronzed  fellow  with  one  arm,  whose  man 
agement  of  the  reins  absorbed  Eleanor  so  that 
she  forgot  to  notice  the  fat  form  hoisting  her 
suit  case  to  the  roof.  Then,  she  was  inside;  and 
the  door  had  swung  shut;  and  the  fat  form 
squeezed  in  next  to  the  door;  and  she  was  lost 
in  her  own  thoughts  oblivious  of  her  close  packed 
neighbors  till  the  stage  stopped  again  with  a  jerk, 
and  the  sharp  edge  of  a  black  cart-wheel-hat 
decorated  with  plumes  enough  for  an  under 
taker's  wagon  cut  a  swath  that  threatened  to 
slice  off  one  of  Eleanor's  ears. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Eleanor. 

"Oh,  I  guess  tha'  wuz  my  fault,"  and  a  mouth 
ful  of  gold  teeth  above  an  ash  colored  V  of  neck 
and  below  the  most  wonderful  straw  stack  of 
wheat  colored  hair  simpered  up  at  Eleanor  from 


266  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

beneath  the  black  cart-wheel-hat;  simpered  and 
ended  up  in  a  funny  little  tittering  laugh. 

Eleanor  took  a  quick  glance  at  her  neighbors, 
all  men  but  the  cart-wheel-hat  to  one  side  and  a 
little  young-old  lady  opposite  with  a  hectic  flush 
and  very  protuberant  hard  mouth  and  beady  lit 
tle  brown  eyes.  Eleanor  noticed  the  brown  eyes 
were  accompanied  by  red  hair,  and  she  recognized 
the  presiding  genius  of  the  English  Colony. 

"A  beautiful  morning  for  a  ride  down  the  Val 
ley,"  remarked  Eleanor  absently. 

"What?  I  beg  your  pardon?  Did  you  speak 
to  met" 

•  It  wasn't  the  words.  It  was  the  hard  tone  of 
surprise. 

"We're  in  luck  to  have  such  a  morning  to  ride 
down,"  amplified  Eleanor. 

"Yes,"  said  the  lady  with  the  hectic  flush;  and 
Eleanor  felt  the  gold  teeth  simpering  beneath 
the  undertaker's  plumes. 

What  was  it?  Eleanor  took  a  second  look  at 
the  two  women,  and  recognized  both,  the  Sheriff's 
wife  and  the  English  lady.  They  were  arrayed 
gorgeously,  her  neighbor  across  in  lavender  silk, 
her  elbow  traveller  in  black  with  a  profusion  of 
cheap  lace  round  the  ash  colored  V  of  exposed 
skin:  Eleanor  wished  the  woman  had  powdered 
all  the  way  down.  She,  herself,  had  come  garbed 
for  the  dust  of  stage  travel,  a  broad  brimmed 
English  sailor  and  a  kakhi  duster  motoring  coat. 
Was  it  because  she  was  not  garbed  as  the  others 


BALLOTS  FOR  BULLETS  267 

that  they  rebuffed  her  friendly  overtures,  she 
wondered.  At  the  next  stop,  she  passed  out  to 
go  up  and  ride  on  the  driver's  seat,  manifestly 
an  impossible  feat  for  ladies  in  lavender  and 
undertaker's  plumes.  A  fat  hand  reached  for 
ward  to  shove  the  door  open.  It  was  Bat 
Brydges'.  She  nodded  her  thanks,  and  the 
handy  man  bowed  with  a  sweep  of  his  hat  naming 
her  aloud  for  the  whole  stage  to  hear.  If  a 
look  could  have  blasted  Mr.  Bat  Brydges,  he 
would  have  been  dissolved  in  gaseous  matter 
from  the  expression  that  passed  over  the  face 
under  the  sailor  hat.  She  heard  the  hilarity 
break  bounds  inside  as  she  mounted  the  driver's 
seat;  and  felt  very  much  as  you  have  felt  when 
you  have  come  out  of  the  clatter  of  the  orchestra 
pit  where  you  have  chanced  to  sit  next  to  a  musk- 
scented  neighbor. 

But  she  forgot  the  lavender  grandee  and  the 
gold  teeth  and  the  undertaker's  plumes,  as  she 
sat  on  the  upper  seat  with  the  one-armed  driver 
behind  the  double  tandem  grays.  The  sun  was 
coming  up  over  the  Eim  Eocks  in  a  half  fan  of 
fire;  and  the  light  was  on  the  Eidge;  and  all  the 
silver  cataracts  tossing  down  the  sheer  wall 
shone  wind-blown  spray  against  the  evergreens. 
The  Valley  widened  as  it  dropped  to  the  leap  and 
fume  and  swirl  of  the  foaming  river;  and  the 
double  tandem  grays  kept  step  with  a  proud 
chacking  up  of  heads  and  bristling  of  arched 


268  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

necks  and  movement  of  thigh  and  shoulder  mus 
cles  under  satin  skin  like  shuttles. 

"You  must  be  very  proud  of  your  beautiful 
horses, "  she  said  to  the  driver. 

The  driver  'lowed  he  was:  that  'un  dappled 
on  the  rump  there,  that  'un  was  foaled,  let  me 
see?  year  o'  the  rush  to  the  Black  Hills,  with 
a  squirt  of  chewing  tobacco  over  the  front  wheel 
and  a  damn't,  and  another  squirt  and  more 
damn't's;  and  before  Eleanor  realized  the  one- 
armed  driver  had  asked  her  if  she  wouldn't  like 
to  learn  to  drive  double  tandems;  and  she  had 
the  reins  in  her  hands;  and  the  double  tandem 
grays  took  the  bit  in  their  teeth  to  show  what 
double  tandem  grays  and  ample  oats  could  do. 

"How-do,"  called  the  driver  with  a  squirt  of 
tobacco  over  the  front  wheel  at  a  rancher  loping 
across  the  trail.  "How-do;  y'  are  up  early,  y' 
eon  of  a  gun!  What  d'  y'  know?" 

"Senator's  goin'  t'  stand  again  this  fall," 
called  the  man. 

The  driver  emitted  another  damn't  in  true 
Western  style  just  as  innocently  as  an  Easterner 
says  "Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  or  an  Englishman  says 
"My  word."  In  fact  Eleanor  lost  count  of  the 
damn't's. 

"How  ever  do  you  manage  it?"  she  asked 
shifting  the  reins. 

"With  my  one  arm,  y'  mean?"  The  stage 
driver  laughed  and  aimed  more  chewing  tobacco 
at  that  innocent  front  wheel;  and  the  question 


BALLOTS  FOR  BULLETS  269 

drew  out  such  a  story  of  heroism  in  spite  of  the 
danm't's  and  the  tobacco  squids  as  made  her 
proud  of  human  clay,  just  as  she  had  been 
ashamed  of  human  something  or  other  inside  the 
stage  with  the  lavender  silk  and  the  gold  teeth 
and  Bat's  frozen  tallow  smile. 

"Why,  it  was  the  year  o'  the  Kootenay  rush, 
ye  mind?  No,  ye  don't  mind,  ye  weren't  born 
then,  were  y'1  Damn't,"  and  a  punctuation  in 
tobacco.  "Wall,  'twas  in  the  early  days  'fore 
we  had  steam  hoists  an'  things."  (Another 
punctuation  mark — a  good  big  one.)  "We  was 
usin'  an  old  hand  hoist.  Guess  the  shaft  was 
about  hundred  feet  down — straight  down,  an' 
we  was  gettin'  in  the  pay  streak,  bringin' 
up  barrels  o'  rock  showin'  more  color  every  load. 
Wall,  them  loads  was  hauled  up  to  the  dumps 
by  a  hand  hoist  y'  onderstand,  kind  of  winch, 
like  y'  turn  a  handle  in  old  fashioned  down  East 
wells.  Wall — "  (Another  punctuation  mark  and 
another  dip  for  ink,  so  to  speak,  from  the  plug 
in  the  hand  of  the  one-armed  driver.)  "boys  were 
all  down  under.  Say — 'twas  in  the  days  when 
ol'  Calamity  was  runnin'  the  hills.  Know  Ca 
lamity?  She  was  a  wild  'un  in  her  day;  an'  they 
say  MacDonald,  the  rich  sheep  man,  has  kind  o' 
sorter  given  her  a  home  these  late  years.  Wall 
— I  ain't  the  one  t'  say  he  shouldn't.  Her 
morals  weren't  much  better  in  them  days  than 
the  crazy  patch  quilts  ladies  used  to  make  down 
East  when  I  was  a  boy;  but  she's  settled  down 


270  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

I  hear;  an'  I  ain't  the  one  to  say  MacDonald 
don't  deserve  credit  for  what  he's  done.  She 
saved  many  a  poor  miner's  life  from  the  Indians 
in  them  ol'  days,  saved  'em  by  a  shave,  carried 
'em  in  on  her  shoulder  to  the  Deadwood  Hos 
pital,  or  missed  'em  well  on  the  spot,  an'  all 
the  while,  she  wazn't  no  better  than  she  ought 
t'  be;  wazn't  there  a  woman  in  Scripture  like 
that?  Kind  o'  seems  to  me  the  church  folks  for 
gets  that  Eahub  gurl!  Wall— 'twas  about  those 
days."  (More  showers  of  damn't's  and  tobacco 
on  that  front  wheel.)  "Boys  was  all  under. 
Big  load  of  rock  was  comin'  up.  I  waz  man  at 
the  hoist,  man  on  the  easy  job  that  day.  Wall 
— wad  y'  believe  it,  the  damn  thing  bruk — bruk 
plum  whoop  an'  started  spinnin'  round  back  side 
first  with  the  load  o'  rock  an'  the  boys  under 
comin'  up  the  ladder.  I  yelled  for  a  kid  we  had 
workin'  round  to  get  me  a  jack  wrench,  a  hand 
spike,  Hell,  any  ol'  thing  to  stop  her  kitin'  that 
load  o'  rock  down  on  the  boys!  Kid  stood 
gopin'  there  an'  say  in'  'What  d'y'  say?'  Say,— 
damn't — an'  that  load  o'  rock  go  in'  plumb  down 
on  the  boys,  heavy  enough  to  smash  'em  to  pulp. 
There  weren't  nothin'  handy  near  'cept  me,  so 
I  jumped  this  here  arm  that  you  find  missin' 
right  into  the  wheel!  It  stopped  her  all  right, 
the  load  didn't  fall  on  the  boys;  and  they  got 
up  all  right  by  the  ladder;  but — say,  mebbe  the 
cogs  o'  that  damn  wheel  didn't  do  a  thing  to 


BALLOTS  FOE  BULLETS  271 

my  arm.  Say — the  doctor  didn't  need  to  ampu 
tate  it.  That  winch  did  him  out  o'  his  job." 

"You  mean,"  said  Eleanor,  slowing  the  grays 
to  a  reluctant  walk  down  grade,  while  the  driver 
clamped  the  front  wheel  brake  with  his  foot, 
"you  mean  because  there  was  no  crowbar,  or 
anything  to  stop  the  hoist  flying  backwards  and 
killing  the  men  under  the  load  of  rock,  you  mean 
because  there  was  no  crowbar,  you  jumped  into 
the  wheel,  yourself?" 

"Sure,"  said  the  man  astonished  at  her 
question;  and  because  Eleanor  was  a  true  West 
erner  and  didn't  mind  the  tobacco  squids  and 
the  danm't's  in  the  least  (where  they  belonged) 
she  gave  that  one-armed  driver  a  look  that  would 
have  made  any  man  proud:  only  the  one-armed 
driver  didn't  see  it. 

"They  took  up  a  purse  an'  wanted  to  give  me 
a  perscription — damn't,  but  I  told  'em  t'  turn 
it  in  t'  the  Horspital.  Any  man  w'd  a'  done 
same  for  a  yellow  dog.  What  d'y'  want  t'  give 
a  fellow  a  medal  for  not  bein'  stinkin'  coward?" 

Eleanor  laughed.  It  was  a  happy  silver  laugh 
like  the  light  on  the  Eidge  cataracts.  Somehow, 
the  one-armed  stage  driver  with  his  unconscious 
heroism  and  equally  unconscious  profanity  gave 
her  a  sense  of  the  big  wholesome  unconscious 
outdoor  world,  just  as  the  lavender  silks  and 
undertaker's  plumes  and  tallow  smile  inside 


272     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

smothered  her  with  a  drugged  sense  of  heavy 
unwholesome  musk.  The  one-time  miner  did  not 
know  it;  but  what  Eleanor  was  saying  to  herself 
was — "So  much  bad  in  the  best  of  us  and  so 
much  good  in  the  worst  of  us."  Then  she 
thought  of  the  Senator  and  his  genial  smile  and 
his  voice  soft  as  a  woman's,  and  his  love  of 
flowers.  He,  too,  must  have  his  vein  of  hero 
ism,  if  one  could  only  find  it.  She  thought  and 
thought  as  the  tandem  grays  arched  their  necks 
at  the  sound  of  the  tramway  bells  in  the  nearing 
city;  thought  and  thought,  vague  wordless 
thoughts  full  of  hope;  vague  womanish  thoughts 
that  women  have  thought  since  time  began  of 
finding  that  magic  vein  of  heroism  in  the  Man 
that  is  to  transmute  slag  into  gold,  hog  into 
human,  and  greed  into  generosity,  and  lust  into 
love;  thought  and  thought  the  gentle  womanish 
hoping-against-hope  thoughts  that  women  have 
worn  out  their  lives  thinking  and  enslaved  their 
bodies  and  pawned  their  souls.  If  only  one  could 
find  that  vein  in  the  Senator,  the  battle  would  be 
won  without  the  letting  of  blood  and  smashing 
of  reputations;  as  if  peace  without  victory  were 
ever  worth  while  since  time  began. 

Then,  the  stage  was  rattling  over  the  pressed 
brick  pavement  of  Smelter  City ;  and  the  tandem 
grays  were  pretending  to  shy  at  the  electric  cars ; 
and  the  one-armed  driver  came  near  expectorat 
ing  his  entire  internal  anatomy  out  of  sheer  joy 
and  pride  in  the  arched  necks  and  the  frail  driver 


BALLOTS  FOB  BULLETS  273 

with  the  black  curls  under  the  broad  brimmed 
English  sailor  hat  handling  the  reins.  She  had 
pulled  off  her  heavy  buckskin  gloves;  and  she 
never  knew  how  absurdly  like  matches  her  fingers 
looked  to  the  big  one-time  miner  beside  her;  nor 
how  the  exhilaration  brought  the  tints  of  the 
painters'  flower  to  her  cheeks  and  the  light  of 
the  Alpine  pools  to  her  eyes.  Every  man  on  the 
street  turned  and  looked  back,  while  the  gold 
teeth  inside  blinked  with  self  conscious  certainty 
that  they  did  it;  and  the  lavender  silks  wore  a 
peculiarly  cynical  smile.  Loafers  sat  up  and 
followed  the  stage  with  eager  eyes  far  as  they 
could  see  it  and  said,  "By  Gawd — whose  gurl  is 
that?"  Oh,  Mr.  Bat  Brydges  intended  every 
bar  room  buffer  and  loafer  in  the  State  should 
know,  *  whose  girP  that  was  before  night. 
Everything  was  fair  in  love  and  war;  and  Bat 
considered  he  had  run  down  a  case  of  both.  Ac 
cording  to  his  lights,  he  had;  but  his  lights  were 
smutty  and  in  need  of  trimming. 

The  stage  dropped  the  gold  teeth  at  a  dentist's 
office,  and  the  lavender  silks  at  a  manicure's 
'studio,'  I  believe  she  called  it;  and  Bat  swung 
off  while  the  coach  was  still  moving ;  and  Eleanor 
reluctantly  gave  up  the  reins  at  the  transconti 
nental  station. 

"Thank  you  so  much.  I  don't  know  when  I 
have  had  as  good  a  time,"  she  said,  giving  the 
stage  driver  the  sensation  of  a  king  in  dis 
guise. 


274  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

And,  of  course,  the  transcontinental  was  late. 
When  was  it  not  late,  when  you  were  in  a  hurry? 

"How  lateT' 

"Four  hours,  last  report, "  the  operator  an 
swered. 

She  sent  her  suit  case  across  to  the  hotel,  and 
shopped,  and  loitered  up  and  down  the  platform. 
It  was  not  until  afterwards  she  remembered  one 
of  the  loafer  brigade  dangling  legs  from  the  sta 
tion  platform  looking  over  his  shoulder  with  an 
evil  smile. 

"Say — d'  y'  see  the  evening  paper?"  he  had 
asked.  "That's  her;"  and  there  was  a  laugh 
that  somehow  sent  her  back  inside  the  station 
feeling  vaguely  uneasy. 

"I  think  I'll  telephone  them  up  at  the  Ranch 
not  to  keep  dinner  waiting,"  she  said  to  the  op 
erator. 

He  was  reading  the  paper.  He  looked  at  her 
a  moment  before  answering.  If  a  human  face 
could  have  been  expressed  in  a  punctuation 
mark,  that  agent's  face  should  have  been  drawn 
in  a  big  question  mark,  with  the  eyes  put  some 
where  in  the  hook,  and  the  neck  growing  longer 
and  longer  as  he  looked. 

"Public  telephone  right  across  the  road,"  he 
said. 

In  avoidance  of  the  loafers'  looks,  she  had 
walked  unheeding  straight  into  the  Senator's 
office.  Her  first  instinct  was  to  withdraw. 
Then,  she  saw  Brydges;  and  that  curious  sensa- 


BALLOTS  FOR  BULLETS  275 

tion  of  repulsion  obsessed  her.  She.  literally 
shot  the  handy  man  in  full  retreat  with  one 
glance.  Then,  the  joy  of  the  ride  down,  the  hero 
ism  of  the  driver,  came  back.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  jar  of  roses,  but  the  thought  came  what  if 
she  could  find  that  vein  of  heroism  in  the  Sen 
ator.  When  women  risk  their  souls  on  that 
"if"  and  the  souls  of  friends  and  children;  is  it 
vanity,  I  wonder,  or  is  it  the  will  o'  the  wisp 
light  that  lights  erring  feet  to  darkness? 

She  thought  more  highly  of  the  Senator  that 
he  did  not  offer  to  shake  hands,  just  as  most  of 
us  would  think  more  highly  of  Judas  Iscariot 
if  he  had  not  kissed  Christ.  Being  a  Westerner, 
she  had  the  Westerner's  horror  of  a  maverick 
sporting  the  brand  of  a  thoroughbred.  The  Sen 
ator  took  off  his  glasses  and  sat  tapping  them 
above  the  U.  S.  Geological  Survey  map. 

"I  trust,"  he  began,  "that  my  man  expressed 
to  you  my  deep  regret — my  deep  distress  over — " 

"Don't  .  .;'..  please,  don't,"  interrupted 
Eleanor,  with  a  passionate  break  in  her  voice. 
"I  know  you  are  honest,  Senator  Moyese,  honest 
to  what  you  believe  is  right;  and  I  don't  want 
you  to  feel  that  you  have  to  lie  because  I  am  a 
woman. ' ' 

The  Senator  opened  his  mouth,  took  a  breath, 
and  shut  it  again. 

She  understood  him  well  enough  to  know  that 
if  he  had  to  toy  with  his  glasses  for  a  twelve 
month,  he  would  wait  for  her  to  play  down  first. 


276     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Yet  she  recognized  the  instinct  of  his  manhood 
to  rescue  the  confusion  of  her  embarrassment 
when  he  put  forward  his  hand  casually  and  said 
— "See  my  roses,  Miss  Eleanor?  They  are  a 
new  variety  of  American  Beauties.  See,  each 
petal  has  a  white  veining?  Know  how  those 
roses  are  produced?  Ages  and  ages  of  poor 
trash  worthless  common  roses  have  been  sacri 
ficed  to  produce  this  perfect  type." 

"That's  your  theory  of  life,  isn't  it!"  she 
asked,  vaguely  conscious  that  the  dragon  was 
disarming  her  anger. 

"Isn't  it  nature's?"  asked  Moyese  gently. 
"The  fit  survive  because  they  are  fit;  the  excep 
tional;  the  few;  while  the  worthless  go  to  waste?" 

Before  Eleanor  realized,  she  had  lost  all  con 
sciousness  of  self  and  was  pleading  passionately 
leaning  forward  across  the  desk. 

"Isn't  Christ's  theory  better,  Senator,  to  make 
all  the  unfit  into  fit?  Isn't  Christ's  theory  the 
theory  of  science?  Science  aims  to  make  a  whole 
field  of  perfect  corn;  not  just  one  perfect  cob. 
I  know  that;  for  I  read  it  in  your  speech  at  the 
opening  of  the  Agricultural  College.  If  we  keep 
on  sacrificing  the  interests  of  the  many  to  the 
interests  of  the  few,  aren't  we  working  back  to 
savagery,  Senator?" 

The  Senator  drew  the  finest  of  the  roses  from 
the  jar.  "It's  a  matter  of  taste,  perhaps,  Miss 
Eleanor;  but  I  prefer  this  to  a  whole  jarful  of 
scrubs." 


BALLOTS  FOR  BULLETS  277 

"Then  you  are  not  working  for  democracy. 
It's  just  as  Mrs.  Williams  says,  all  you  foreign 
multimillionaires  are  subverting  our  Nation  by 
working  for  old  fashioned  despotism  in  disguise ; 
sacrificing  the  many  to  the  few. ' ' 

"Oh,  does  Mrs.  Williams  say  that?"  asked 
Moyese  reflectively,  pushing  back  from  the  desk 
and  clasping  his  hands  round  one  knee.  "That 
may  be;  republicanism  doesn't  necessarily  mean 
letting  the  blockheads  rule !  It  may  mean  giving 
equal  opportunity  for  the  fit  men  to  come  to 
the  top  and  rule.  Did  you  come  in  to  talk  over 
these  things  with  me,  Miss  Eleanor!  I  must 
make  a  convert  of  you;  it  would  win  over  Way- 
land  and  Williams  and  your  father." 

"No,  I  didn't.  I  came  in  here  by  mistake. 
The  operator  told  me  I'd  find  a  public  telephone 
across  the  road;  and  I  wasn't  noticing  where  I 
was  going,  and  I  came  in  here;  but  all  the  way 
down,  I  had  been  thinking  of  you,  Senator  Moy 
ese.  I  kept  thinking  if  you  could  only  be  made 
to  see  the  New  Day  that  is  dawning,  perhaps 
you  would  meet  it  half  way.  I  rode  in  the 
driver's  seat  coming  down;  and  he  told  me  how 
he  lost  his  arm;  Senator,  think  of  the  hero  in 
him!" 

"And  you  thought  there  might  be  some  of  the 
hero  in  me,  too!"  Moyese  laughed,  the  noiseless 
genial  laugh  creasing  his  chin  and  his  white  vest. 

"While  you  laugh,  you  are  letting  your  rose 
wither. ' ' 


278     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

He  handed  the  rose  to  her.  "Yes,  I  know  that 
fellow.  I  was  in  the  Kootenay  when  he  lost  his 
arm,  torn  out  all  bloody  right  from  the  shoulder 
socket;  had  to  pry  the  cogs  up  to  get  him  out. 
They  collected  a  purse  of  a  thousand  for  him; 
but  he  wouldn't  take  a  cent:  handed  it  over  to 
the  hospital.  Something  in  that  fellow  bigger 
than  self  kind  of  popped  out  and  surprised  him 
self." 

She  noticed  him  looking  at  the  wall  clock  as  he 
talked,  but  not  being  a  business  woman  did  not 
know  what  that  meant. 

"There's  something  bigger  than  self  with  us 
all,  Senator;  and  we  have  to  work  for  it." 

"My  dear  child,  do  you  think  you  need  to  tell 
an  old  stager  that?"  He  was  kicking  the  creases 
out  of  his  trousers.  This  time,  she  could  not 
mistake  the  signal,  and  felt  her  womanish  ideal 
ism  of  mining  for  the  hidden  vein  of  heroism 
both  childish  and  cheapening.  She  rose  and 
placed  the  flower  back  on  the  desk. 

"There's  something  bigger  than  you  or  me, 
my  dear,"  he  went  on,  "something  for  which 
every  man  worth  his  salt  must  work  and  fight, 
and  which  a  woman  does  not  understand." 

"And  that  is?" 

"His  party,"  said  Moyese. 

"But  Senator,  there  is  something  bigger  than 
party,  and  if  a  man  works  against  That,  he'll 
injure  his  party." 

"And  that  is?" 


BALLOTS  FOR  BULLETS  279 

"His  Nation, "  said  the  girl. 

Moyese  gave  her  a  quick  sharp  look  that  was 
not  unkindly.  In  fact,  Eleanor  could  read  that 
it  was  lonely,  irritated,  isolated. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  coming  round  where  she 
stood,  "we  differ  on  fundamentals.  The  whole 
nation  to-day  is  divided  on  fundamentals.  Pm 
no  mealy  mouth  to  curse  plutocracy  in  order  to 
please  the  mob.  Plutocracy  fills  the  workman's 
dinner  pail  and  keeps  the  mills  going  and  opens 
the  mines  and  builds  the  railroads.  Mobocracy, 
your  grubby  corn  cob  and  trashy  roses,  that, 
what  does  it  do?  Mouthe  and  mouthe  and  try  to 
pull  down  what  is  above  it!  It  will  have  to  be 
fought  out !  No !  It  will  not  be  another  French 
Eevolution!  Our  bullets  are  ballots,  nowadays; 
and  the  American  people  get  exactly  the  form  of 
Government  which  they  want.  If  they  want  an 
other  form,  it  remains  with  them  to  fight  for  it. 
The  umpire  of  all  is  fact — Miss  Eleanor ;  and  the 
facts  of  each  side  will  have  to  be  fought  out; 
the  better  man  will  win;  be  sure  of  that!  The 
facts  that  are  facts  not  fictions  will  win,  ivith  bal 
lots  for  bullets.  For  my  part,  I'll  not  dodge  the 
issue;  and  I  hope  you'll  not  think  me  any  the  less 
of  the  hero  for  that!" 

He  had  extended  his  hand  as  he  talked,  and  to 
her  surprise,  she  found  herself  taking  it  when 
with  a  wave  of  revulsion,  the  memory  of  the 
Kidge  and  the  Eim  Eocks  came  back. 

"And  government  is  a  mere  game  of  politics?" 


280     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

she  said.  "And  politics  resolves  itself  into 
brute  force;  and  a  murder  more  or  less  doesn't 
matter?  Fordie,  I  suppose,  would  be  classed  as 
one  of  the  scrubs  sacrificed  for  this  perfection  of 
party  ?" 

His  hand  dropped  hers  as  if  she  had  struck 
him. 

"You  did  not  know  that  you  were  overheard! 
'See  that  no  harm  comes  to  the  boy.'  You  did 
not  mean  Fordie  to  be  murdered;  but  they  were 
to  crowd  the  sheep  over  'to  beat  Hell,'  'the  sheep 
were  to  go  it  blind' — my  father's  and  Mr.  Wil 
liams'  property  was  to  be  sacrificed  to  build  up 
the  fortune  of  the  cattle  barons :  they  too,  I  sup 
pose,  are  scrubs  sacrificed  among  the  many  for 
the  wealth  of  the  one,  who  happens  to  be  yourself. 
You  broke  the  law ;  but  because  you  did  not  order 
Fordie 's  murder,  you  think  the  blood  guiltiness 
from  that  broken  law  does  not  rest  upon  you. 
You  say  it  must  all  be  fought  out.  You  force 
the  fight—" 

He  raised  his  hand  to  stop  her.  She  remem 
bered  afterwards  how  ashy  white  and  aged  his 
face  became.  He  walked  to  the  door  and  opened 
it.  She  passed  out.  So  that  was  to  what  her 
womanish  mining  for  the  vein  of  the  ideal  hero 
ism  had  led.  She  had  been  politely  shown  out. 
It  was  as  Wayland  had  said :  there  was  no  middle 
course;  and  it  was  also  as  the  Senator  had  said, 
it  must  be  fought  out,  and  the  bullets  were  to  be 
ballots. 


BALLOTS  FOR  BULLETS  281 

The  Senator  slammed  his  door  shut  and 
snapped  the  yale  lock.  Then  he  noticed  the  rose 
she  had  left,  and  tossed  it  in  the  spittoon. 

" Thank  God,"  he  ejaculated  fervently  as  he 
sank  back  in  the  swing  chair,  "Thank  God 
women  are  not  in  politics.  There  is  always  some 
thing  to  be  thankful  for." 

Then,  an  idea  seemed  to  strike  him.  He  rang 
the  telephone  with  fury,  and  it  didn't  improve 
his  temper  to  hear  the  saucy  little  central  in 
forming  her  elbow  mate  that  ' '  that  ol '  fellah  wuz 
burnin'  the  wire  up  alive. " 

' '  Is  that  <  The  Herald '  ?  Brydges  there  !  That 
you,  Brydges?  Listen,  the  night  you  were  up  on 
the  Ridge,  have  you  any  perfect  proof  that  Way- 
land  didn't  go  down  when  you  were  asleep? 
Eh?  You  turned  in  at  ten;  and  you  found  him 
still  stamping  about  at  twelve?  Is  that  it? 
What?  No?  Don't  be  a  damphool,  cut  that  out. 
Of  course,  he  didn't  go  down  to  the  Ranch 
House.  Cut  that  whole  scandal  thing  out. 
There's  nothing  in  it;  but  I  think  we  can  locate 
our  missing  knight  errant.  Understand?  He's 
got  to  be  smashed?  What?  You  had  printed 
the  scandal  story  before  you  ever  came  in  to  me 
at  all?  Dictated  it  right  in  to  the  typo  machines  ? 
In  the  '  Independent '  ?  Oh,  well,  I  'm  glad  it  didn  't 
go  in  the  'City  Herald'?  But  it  did  go  in;  one 
evening  paper?"  Then  the  wrath  of  the  strong 
man  broke  bounds.  If  he  had  been  a  stage  vil 
lain  the  curtain  drop  would  have  fallen  on  a 


282  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

red  faced  gentleman  pounding  the  desk,  tearing 
at  the  telephone,  hurling  his  chair  about  the  office 
and  generally,  as  the  saucy  little  central  re 
marked,  ' '  eating  the  wire  up  alive. ' ' 

When  Brydges'  chief  indulged  in  explosives 
that  necessitated  the  repair  of  furniture  the 
next  day,  the  handy  man  always  stood  strictly 
and  silently  at  attention.  He  knew  the  mean 
ing  of  the  stage  thunder:  it  was  the  trick  of  the 
Indian  medicine  man,  who  fires  guns  to  bring 
down  rain.  Bat  knew  that  the  fulminations 
were  of  a  piece  with  all  the  other  orders  to  do 
and  not  to  do,  an  effort  to  get  results  while  di 
verting  the  thunderbolt  from  the  rain  maker 's 
head;  for  by  one  of  those  strange  contingencies 
that  Shakespeare  defines  as  an  opportunity  of 
evil,  when  the  handy  man  had  gone  to  the 
*  Herald/  the  news  editor  chanced  to  be  out.  Bat 
crossed  to  the  *  Independent's'  office.  It  lacked 
but  half  an  hour  of  the  time  to  lock  up  the  press, 
and  on  condition  that  the  story  should  be  "a 
scoop,"  Bat  was  sent  out  to  the  composing  room 
to  dictate  straight  to  the  printer,  standing  over 
the  linotype  machine. 

What  was  "the  story"  that  he  dictated?  If 
you  know  where  to  look,  you  can  see  its  proto 
type  seven  times  a  week.  It  was  written  jocu 
larly  ;  oh,  it  was  exceedingly  funny  with  all  sorts 
of  veiled  references  to  naughtiness  that  couldn't 
be  printed,  pretty  naughtiness,  you  understand, 


BALLOTS  FOR  BULLETS  283 

the  kind  you  wink  at,  as  was  to  be  expected  from 
a  little  beauty,  a  brunette,  chic,  etc.  (I  forget 
how  many  French  words  Bat  tucked  in:  he  had 
to  look  'em  up  in  the  French-English  appendix 
to  "Webster's  Dictionary  as  the  proof  came  off 
the  galley),  the  well  known  daughter  of  the 
richest  sheep  rancher  in  the  Valley.  "The 
story"  was  headed:  "Pretty  Scandal  in  Peace 
ful  Valley."  Bat  played  "the  human  interest" 
feature  for  all  it  was  worth;  also  the  trick  of 
suspended  interest.  It  began  by  informing  the 
public  that  a  pretty  scandal  was  disturbing  a 
certain  Valley  not  a  hundred  miles  from  the 
Eim  Eocks,  the  essential  details  of  which  could 
not  be  given,  would  probably  never  be  printed, 
for  obvious  reasons.  Then  followed  a  solid 
paragraph  of  nonsense  verse  inserted  as  prose; 
about  a  Banger-man,  Banger-man,  running  away, 
'Cause  pa-pah,  dear  pa-pah  comes  home  for  to 
day;  But  his  Lincoln  green  coatie  the  Banger 
forgot;  And  pa-pah,  dear  pa-pah  came  home 
raging  hot;  The  Banger-man,  Banger-man  was 
still  on  the  run,  For  pa-pah,  dear  pa-pah  was 
out  with  a  gun,  He'd  heaved  up  his  war  club 
and  jangled  his  spear,  And  swore  by  my  halidom 
what  doth  that  coat  here,  etc.,  etc.  Any  school 
boy  could  have  trolled  off  yards  of  the  same 
drivelling  cleverness;  and  Eleanor's  innocent 
telephone  call  was,  of  course,  lugged  in. 

There    followed    a    garbled    account    of    poor 
Calamity's  errant  days  among  the  miners  of  the 


284  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Black  Hills.  The  account  had  no  reference  to 
her  heroism  in  the  early  mining  days,  when  she 
roved  in  man's  attire  over  the  hills  to  rescue 
wounded  miners  from  the  Sioux.  It  set  forth 
only  her  blazoning  sins;  evidently  on  the  as 
sumption  that  carrion  is  preferable  to  meat. 
And  then  tucked  ingeniously  into  this  account 
was  veiled  mention  of  a  rich  sheepman,  too  well 
known  to  need  naming,  who  was  evidently  mak 
ing  reparation  for  the  errors  of  his  youth  by 
according  to  the  mother  as  good  treatment  as 
the  daughter  under  the  same  roof.  Not  a  name 
was  mentioned  except  Calamity's.  I  trust  it  is 
obvious  to  you  that  it  was  not  libelous,  because 
it  was  without  malice.  In  fact,  if  you  want  to 
know  the  ear  marks  of  a  handy  man's  " story," 
look  out  for  the  smart  gentlemen  in  veiled  ref 
erences  without  any  facts  which  can  be  trans 
fixed  by  either  a  pin  or  a  handspike.  When  you 
find  the  innuendo  without  the  handhold  of  fact, 
lick  your  lips  if  you  are  keen  on  carrion;  for  I 
promise  that  you  have  come  on  a  morsel. 

Bat  did  even  better  than  the  clever  story 
dictated  straight  to  the  typo  in  the  composing 
room.  Always  in  the  West,  there  flit  in  and  out 
what  we  Westerners  used  to  call  "floaters,"  gen 
tlemen  (and  ladies)  who  come  in  on  a  pullman 
car  and  go  out  on  a  pullman  car  and  sometimes 
venture  as  far  away  from  safety  as  a  hotel 
rotunda,  then  syndicate  their  impressions  of  the 


BALLOTS  FOR  BULLETS  285 

West,  in  the  East,  and  gravely  correct  twenty 
year  Westerners  with  twenty  minute  impressions. 
I  don't  believe  on  the  whole,  as  Westerners,  we 
like  them  very  much;  but  obviously,  one  doesn't 
kill  a  mosquito  with  a  hammer. 

Bat  caught  such  a  floater  on  the  delayed  trans 
continental  express.  He  was  seeing  the  West 
through  a  car  window.  The  East  will  not  see 
the  jocularity  of  that  fact.  The  West  will, 
though  it  may  smile  with  a  twist.  Bat's  floater 
was  working  for  a  Chicago  boomster,  who  had 
issued  a  magazine  to  boom  Western  real  estate, 
suburban  lots  seven  miles  from  a  flat  car,  which 
was  all  there  was  of  the  city.  For  exactly  fif 
teen  dollars  (when  the  floater's  impressions  came 
out,  I  made  exact  inquiries  as  to  what  Bat  had 
paid  him;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  floater  sold 
himself  very  cheap)  the  travelling  impressionist 
took  over  Bat's  story  of  "the  Pretty  Scandal  in 
Peaceful  Valley"  and  rehashed  it  with  the  name 
MacDonald  given  as  Macdonel,  and  syndicated 
the  scandal  against  the  Forest  Service  through 
out  the  East. 

The  transcontinental  express  had  made  up 
lost  time  and  came  roaring  in  just  as  the  stage 
rattled  up  to  the  platform.  MacDonald  and 
Williams  stepped  off  the  observation  car. 
Eleanor  shook  hands. 

"You  know  about  the  sheep?"  she  asked. 


286  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Yes,  we  have  your  letter, "  answered  Mac- 
Donald.  "That's  why  we  stayed  so  long  buying 
grazing  ground  in  the  Upper  Pass." 

"Here,  boy."  He  bought  an  evening  paper; 
and  helped  Eleanor  inside  the  stage.  Then  he 
mounted  to  the  top  with  Williams.  There  were 
only  three  other  occupants  in  the  stage,  the  lady 
of  the  lavender  silks,  the  gold  teeth,  and  a  work 
man,  sodden  drunk  and  drowsy,  in  the  upper 
corner.  The  lady  of  the  lavender  silks  had  a 
complexion  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  dipped 
in  a  fountain  of  perennial  youth.  She  was  lean 
ing  over  the  evening  paper  which  the  undertaker 
plumes  had  evidently  shown  her.  The  heat  had 
not  improved  Eleanor's  stiff  linen  collar  and  the 
dust  had  certainly  not  added  to  the  style  of  her 
kakhi  motor  coat.  It  was  not  until  afterwards 
she  remembered  how  both  the  heads  flew  apart 
from  the  evening  paper  the  moment  she  entered 
the  stage. 

"Have  you  had  a  pleasant  day  shopping,  my 
dear?"  It  was  the  lavender  silk  with  the  hard 
mouth  actually  breaking  in  a  smile.  It  was  the 
"my  dear"  that  struck  Eleanor's  ear  as  odd. 
The  manner  said  plainly  as  words  could  say 
"You  weren't  before;  but  you  are  now." 

"Oh,  it  was  rather  hot,"  answered  Eleanor 
quietly. 

"Y're  on  the  wrong  soide.  Y're  in  the  sun. 
If  y'll  sit  over  b'side  off  me,  my  dear  gurl — " 

Eleanor     nearly     exploded.     'Girl'     was     the 


BALLOTS  FOR  BULLETS  287 

limit:  'lady'  would  have  been  worse;  ' woman' 
was  good  enough  for  her;  but,  'gurl.'  It  was 
the  manner,  the  proprietary  manner,  you  are 
one  of  us  now:  what  had  happened?  She  did 
not  answer.  She  raised  her  eye  lashes  and 
looked  the  speaker  over  from  the  undertaker's 
plumes  and  the  gold  teeth  and  the  ash  colored 
V  of  skin  to  the  clock-work  stockings  and  high 
heeled  slippers.  Then,  the  stage  was  stopping 
violently  and  her  father  appeared  on  the  rear 
steps  at  the  door.  She  had  never  seen  him  look 
so.  His  eyes  were  blazing.  It  was  not  until 
afterwards  she  remembered  how  the  lavender 
silks  had  crushed  the  evening  paper  all  up  and 
sat  upon  it. 

"There  is  a  little  girl  up  on  the  seat  with  the 
driver.  You'll  find  it  pleasanter  there  going  up 
the  Valley." 

She  remembered  afterwards,  while  her  father 
gave  her  a  hand  up  the  front  wheel,  a  voice  in 
side  the  stage  exclaimed:  "Say,  thought  they 
wuz  goin'  to  be  fireworks.  If  Dan'd  read  that 
in  th'  paper  'bout  me,  he'd  a  gone  on  awful." 

"Oh,  no,  he's  a  thoroughbred  all  right,  if  it 
is  part  Indian." 

Then  her  father  and  Williams  had  gone  down 
inside  the  stage;  and  she  was  left  with  the 
driver  and  a  diminutive  little  bit  of  humanity, 
that  looked  as  if  it  had  escaped  from  one  of  the 
rag  shops  of  Shanty  Town.  She  wore  a  tawdry 
thing  on  her  head  with  bright  carmine  ostrich 


288  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

plumes  that  had  lost  their  curl  in  the  rain.  A 
red  plush  cape  was  round  her  shoulders;  and 
Eleanor  could  hardly  believe  her  eyes — she  had 
not  seen  them  since  she  went  through  the  East 
End  of  London — they  were  copper  toed  boots. 

"M'  name  is  Meestress  Leezie  O'Finnigan. 
What's  y'rs?"  demanded  the  little  old  face. 

Eleanor  didn't  answer.  She  was  trying  to 
think  what  had  changed  the  driver's  friendly 
manner.  He  had  neither  greeted  her  nor  prof 
fered  the  reins.  And  now,  oh,  philosopher  of 
the  human  heart,  for  each  of  us  is  a  philosopher 
inside,  answer  me:  why  did  the  driver,  who  was 
a  bit  of  a  hero,  and  the  lavender  silk,  who  was 
an  adventuress,  and  the  gold  teeth,  who  was  a 
slattern,  neither  pure  nor  simple,  why  did  each 
and  all  eagerly  believe  the  evil,  so  vague  it  had 
not  been  stated,  written  by  an  unknown  black 
mailer,  in  the  face  of  the  reputation  of  purity 
sitting  beside  them? 

"M*  father  uz  down  inside,"  continued  the 
child.  "He's  sleep.  We're  goin'  t'  live  on  th' 
Eidge.  D'  y'  know  what  a  Kidge  iz?  We're 
goin'  t'  be  waal-thy — m'  father  says  so.  He 
says  we  won't  have  a  thing  t'  do  but  sit  toight 
an'  whuttle  un'  sput,  un'  whuttle  un'  sput  fur 
three  years,  then  the  com'ny  wull  huv  t'  pay  us 
what  he  asks.  He  says  they  think  they'll  pay 
him  off  fur  three  hun'red;  but  he  says  he  knows, 
he  does;  un'  he's  goin'  t'  hold  'em  up  fur  half. 
Unless  they  give  him  half  he'll  tell — " 


BALLOTS  FOR  BULLETS  289 

"What?"  asked  Eleanor,  suddenly  wakening 
up  to  the  meaning  of  the  chatter.  "What  is 
your  father?" 

"He's  trunk  jes'  now,"  said  the  child.  Then 
she  reached  her  face  up  to  Eleanor's  confiden 
tially.  The  little  teeth  were  very  unclean  and 
the  breath  was  very  garlicky,  indeed.  "He's 
goin'  t'  be  a  dummy,"  she  whispered  with  a 
gurgle  of  childish  glee,  "un'  he  says  he'll  easily 
hold  'em  up  for  twenty  thousand  without  doin' 
a  thing  fur  five  years  but  whuttle  un'  sput." 

"A  dummy?     Oh,"  said  Eleanor. 

Even  the  driver  relaxed  enough  to  flick  the 
tandem  grays  with  his  whip  and  permit  a  twisted 
smile  to  play  round  the  tobacco  wad  in  his 
cheek. 

They  ate  their  late  supper  in  the  Branch  House 
by  lamp  light,  her  father  scarcely  uttering  a 
word,  the  evening  paper  still  sticking  out  of  his 
coat  pocket. 

"I  know  this  sheep  affair  has  been  a  horrible, 
hideous  loss,"  she  said.  "Is  that  what's  worry 
ing  you,  father?" 

MacDonald  shoved  back  from  the  table. 

"Pah,  that's  nothing,"  he  said. 

He  stood  waiting  till  the  German  cook  had  re 
moved  the  dishes.  Then  he  drew  the  paper  from 
his  pocket. 

"There's  something  here  I'm  sorry  you'll 
have  to  know,"  he  said.  "You  won't  under- 


290  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

stand  how  low  the  meaning  of  most  of  it  is;  but 
I'm  sorry  they  hit  you  to  try  and  hurt  me." 

He  threw  himself  down  in  a  big  leather  chair. 
She  took  the  paper  mechanically  and  sat  on  the 
arm  of  the  chair  to  read.  She  read  slowly  and 
deHberately  to  the  end.  Then  she  re-read  both 
columns;  and  the  paper  fell  from  her  hands. 
She  did  not  know  it,  but  the  same  suppressed 
fury  was  blazing  in  her  face  as  she  had  seen  on 
his  at  the  stage  door. 

"So  that  is  what  was  doing  when  I  went  to 
the  Senator's  office  this  afternoon  to  plead  with 
him  that  things  could  not  go  on  in  the  old 
plundering  way.  That  is  what  his  man's  visit 
meant  here  the  other  day  to  express  sympathy 
with  you  for  the  loss  of  the  sheep?  Now  I  un 
derstand  what  the  loafers  at  the  station  meant, 
and  the  driver's  unfriendliness,  and  those  un 
clean  women;  and  to  think  they  framed  it  all 
out  of  that  innocent  coat.  You  know,  father, 
Mr.  Wayland  had  carried  Fordie  down  from  the 
Eim  Rocks.  We  carried  the  body  in  together." 

"Where  is  Wayland?"  asked  MacDonald;  and 
she  poured  out  the  full  story  of  all  that  had 
happened.  I  hope,  gentle  reader,  you  will  please 
to  observe  that  if  the  father  had  viewed  the 
facts  of  that  recital  through  the  same  tainted 
mind  as  Mr.  Bat  Brydges,  a  breach  would  have 
occurred  that  neither  time  nor  regret  could  have 
bridged.  I  confess  when  I  see  breaches  occur 
that  wrench  lives  and  break  hearts  through  love 


BALLOTS  FOR  BULLETS  291 

harboring  suspicion,  I  don't  think  the  love  is 
very  much  worth  the  name.  You  can't  both 
have  your  plant  grow,  and  keep  tearing  up  the 
roots  to  see  if  they  are  growing.  You  can't 
both  throw  mud  in  a  spring  and  drink  out  of 
a  well  of  love  undefiled.  If  love  grows  by  what 
it  feeds  on,  so  does  suspicion.  He  did  not 
once  look  up  questioningly  to  her  eyes.  In 
stead,  he  reached  up  and  took  hold  of  her  hand. 
For  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  father  and 
daughter  came  together. 

"But  there  is  one  thing  you  are  mistaken 
about,  father.  They  did  not  hit  me,  to  hurt  you. 
They  hit  me,  to  stop  Dick  Wayland." 

"Why,  what  difference  can  you  make  to  Way- 
land?" 

She  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder. 

"I  love  him,"  she  said. 

When  the  German  cook  came  in  with  the 
washed  dishes,  father  and  daughter  still  sat  in 
the  big  arm  chair;  and  you  may  depend  on  it, 
that  flunky  carried  out  to  the  ranch  hands,  guz 
zling  over  the  evening  paper  in  the  bunk  house, 
a  proper  report  of  a  heart  broken  father  and 
a  repentant  daughter;  for  when  we  look  out  on 
the  world,  do  we  see  the  world  at  all;  or  do 
we  see  the  shadows  of  our  own  inner  souls  cast 
out  on  the  passing  things  of  life? 


CHAPTER  XX 

A   FAITH   WORKABLE   FOR   MEN    ON    THE   JOB 

"The  point  is,"  said  Wayland,  "though  we 
have  driven  out  this  nest  of  beauties,  we  have 
no  guarantee  another  nest  won 't  take  their  place ; 
and  so  we're  not  much  farther  ahead  than  be 
fore,  with  the  chances  I'll  be  called  down  for  ex 
ceeding  my  duties." 

"And  y'll  keep  on  bein'  where  y'  were  before 
till  y'  get  the  Man  Higher  Up,"  interrupted  Mat 
thews. 

They  had  camped  among  the  red  firs  where 
the  Desert  crossed  the  State  Line  and  merged 
from  cut  rocks  to  broken  timber.  It  was  seven 
weeks  since  they  had  set  out  from  the  Upper 
Mesas  of  the  Rim  Rocks,  four  weeks  since  they 
had  left  the  saline  pool.  Man  and  beast,  fagged 
to  the  point  of  utter  exhaustion,  retraced  steps 
slower  than  fresh  hunters  on  an  untried  trail. 
Also,  going  down,  they  had  followed  hard 
wherever  fugitives  led.  Coming  back,  they 
struck  across  to  the  Western  Desert  road,  and 
travelled  from  belt  to  belt  of  the  irrigation  farms, 
with  their  orange-green  cottonwood  groves  and 
bluish-green  alfalfa  fields  and  little  match  box 

292 


A  WORKABLE  FAITH  293 

houses  stuck  out  of  sight  among  peach  orchards. 
The  parched-earth,  burnt-oil  smell  gave  place 
to  the  minty  odor  of  hay  in  wind  rows,  with  the 
cool  water  tang  of  the  big  irrigation  ditch  flow 
ing  liquid  gold  in  the  yellow  August  light.  One 
evening,  Matthews  looked  back  to  the  looming 
heat  waving  and  writhing  above  the  orange  sands 
beneath  a  sky  of  lilac  and  topaz  round  a  sunset 
flowing  from  a  dull  red  ball  of  fire.  Far  ahead, 
the  edges  of  forested  mountain  cut  the  heat  haze 
with  opal  winged  light  above  what  might  have 
been  peaks  or  clouds. 

"  'Tis  beautiful,  Wayland,  y'r  lone  Desert 
world;  but  man  alive,  it's  sad!  Y'  call  some  the 
Painted  Desert,  don't  ye?  'Tis  like  a  painted 
woman,  Wayland,  vera  beautiful,  vera  fair  to 
look  on  an'  allurin',  but  a'  out  o'  perspective; 
an'  Wayland,  the  painted  woman  is  always  a  bit 
lonely  in  the  bottom  o'  her  soul  spite  o'  harsh 
laugh.  So  is  the  Desert  wi'  its  harsh  silence. 
Those  as  like  to  be  shrivelled  up  wi'  thirst,  may 
have  it !  A  'm  a  plain  man ! ' ' 

Then  one  morning,  the  opal  swimming  above 
the  smoke  haze  of  the  North  shone, — was  it  the 
shape  of  a  cross? 

"Wayland,  man,  look!" 

The  old  frontiersman  had  taken  off  his  hat. 

"Man  alive,  open  y'r  throat  an'  let  out  a  yell." 

"I'm  too  busy  drinking  in  the  air,"  answered 
Wayland. 

And  they  both  laughed.     The   mule  and  the 


294  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

broncho  stood  pointing  their  ears  forward. 
Way  land's  mare,  which  he  had  bought  at  one  of 
the  irrigation  farms,  lifted  up  her  neck  and 
whinnied.  It  was  at  that  irrigation  farm  oper 
ated  by  a  retired  newspaper  man  from  Chicago — 
they  had  got  a  reading  of  the  first  newspaper  seen 
since  leaving  the  Valley  and  learned  that  the 
bodies  of  the  two  remaining  fugitive  outlaws  had 
been  found  by  the  railway  navvies.  Wayland 
thoughtfully  removed  his  Forest  Service  medall 
ion.  Men  do  not  question  each  other  over  much 
in  the  West.  They  had  passed  on  unquestion 
ing  and  unquestioned,  Wayland  a  disguised  figure 
in  his  new  ready-to-wear  kakhi,  not  a  sign  of  the 
Forest  Service  about  them,  but  the  green  felt  hat 
still  worn  by  the  old  preacher,  and  the  hatchets 
fastened  to  the  saddles. 

"How  many  Holy  Cross  Mountains  have  y'  in 
the  West,  Wayland  1" 

"Three  that  I  know  of." 

"That's  ours,  isn't  it!" 

"Yes,  it's  ours:  the  old  priests  and  explorers 
scattered  the  name  round  pretty  thick  in  the  old 
days." 

"How  far  do  you  make  it?" 

"About  a  hundred  miles,  perhaps  more!" 

"Been  a  pilot  to  the  priests  and  explorers  for 
centuries  ! ' ' 

"I  guess  so,  sir." 

"Wayland,  may  it  be  so  t'  th'  Nation,  now! 
YVe  got  a  wilderness  an'  a  Bed  Sea  an'  a  Dead 


A  WORKABLE  FAITH  295 

Sea  an'  a  devilish  dirty  lot  o'  travellin'  to  do 
on  th'  way  t'  y'r  promised  land;  an'  A'm 
thinking  man,  y've  wasted  a  lot  o'  time  on  the 
trail  worshippin'  th'  calf;  an'  God  knows  who  is 
y'r  Moses. " 

They  camped  that  night  among  the  evergreens 
with  red  fir  branches  for  beds,  the  first  beds  they 
had  known  for  seven  weeks,  with  the  needled 
end  pointing  in  and  the  branch  end  out,  "unless 
y'  want  t'  sleep  on  stumps,"  the  old  preacher 
had  admonished  the  bed  maker.  And  during 
the  night,  the  wind  sprang  up  shaking  all  the 
pixie  tambourines  in  the  pines  and  the  hemlocks, 
and  setting  the  poplars  and  cottonwoods  clapping 
their  hands.  A  spurt  of  moisture  hit  the  old 
man's  face. 

"Man  alive,  but  is  that  rain?"  he  asked. 

Wayland  laughed.  "Only  a  drop  from  a 
broken  pine  needle;  but  rain  would  taste  good, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"D'  y'  smell  it?  Smell  hard!  It's  like 
cloves." 

Wayland  laughed.  He  had  had  all  these  sen 
sations  of  coming  back  from  South  to  North  be 
fore. 

The  next  night,  they  camped  beside  a  chorus 
of  waterfalls,  joyous,  gurgling,  laughing  silver 
water,  not  the  sullen  silent  blood  red  streams  of 
the  Desert  that  flow  without  a  sound  but  the 
plunk  of  the  soft  bank  corroding  and  falling  in. 


296  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

They  could  not  talk.  They  lay  in  quiet,  listen 
ing  to  the  tinkle  and  trill  and  treble  of  the  silver 
flow  over  the  stones;  to  the  little  waves  lipping 
and  lisping  and  lapping  through  the  grasses; 
and  when  the  moon  came  up,  every  rill  showed 
a  silver  light.  Wayland  was  thinking, — need  I 
tell  what  he  was  thinking?  Was  he  thinking  at 
all;  or  was  he  drinking,  drinking,  drinking  life 
from  a  fountain  of  memory  immanent  as  pres 
ent  consciousness?  He  tossed  restlessly.  He 
sat  up  with  his  face  in  his  hands.  When  he 
turned,  the  old  man  had  risen  and  was  stripping. 
"A'm  goin'  V  find  a  pool  an'  go  in,  Wayland. 
Dry  farmin'  may  be  good  for  crops;  but  this  dry 
bath  business  o'  y'r  Desert, — 'tis  not  for  a  North 
man.  Better  come  along!  If  A  can  find  it  to 
my  neck,  y'll  need  a  cant  hook  to  get  me  out  'fore 
daylight!" 

They  had  come  back  from  their  plunge  and 
were  spreading  the  slickers  above  the  fir  branches 
for  bed,  when  Matthews  began  to  talk  in  a  low 
dreamy  voice,  more  as  a  man  thinking  out  loud 
than  one  uttering  a  confessional.  It  was  the 
first  word  of  religion  the  Eanger  had  heard  him 
utter.  Wayland  had  really  come  to  wonder  when 
the  old  preacher  prayed.  When  he  came  to 
know  him  better,  he  realized  that  a  good  man 
may  pray  standing  on  his  feet,  or  striding  to 
duty,  readily  as  on  prone  knees. 

"  'Tis  like  the  water  o'  life,  Wayland!    Men 


A  WORKABLE  FAITH  297 

laugh  at  that  phrase  to-day!  Oh,  A  know  vera 
well,  we've  no  time  for  an  old  or  a  new  dispen 
sation  nowdays.  We're  too  busy  wi'  the  golden 
calf,  an'  the  painted  woman,  an'  th'  market 
place,  an*  th'  den  o'  thieves;  an'  when  th'  vision 
faileth,  the  people  perish!  'Ye  shall  have  a  just 
balance  an'  a  just  ephah';  'an'  take  away  y'r 
offerings  an'  y'r  burnt  offerings  an  y'r  gifts, 
saith  the  Lord  of  Hosts.'  Earn  that  down  the 
throat  of  y'r  church-buildin'  thieves,  an'  y'r 
bribe-givin'  pirates,  who  steal  a  billion  out  o'  th' 
Nation's  pocket,  then  take  out  an  insurance 
policy  against  a  Hell,  they're  no  so  sure  doesn't 
exist,  by  givin'  back  a  million  t'  th'  people 
they've  plundered!  Tell  me  y'r  old  dispensa 
tion's  past?  A  could  preach  a  sermon  from 
th'  oldest  book  in  the  Bible  w'ud  burn  up  Fifth 
Avenue  an'  have  y'r  churches  sendin'  in  a  call 
for  the  p'lice  t'  cart  me  away  t'  a  lunatic  asylum! 
Ah,  yes,  A  know  they'll  tell  y'  A'm  not  learned 
an'  don't  know  Hebrew!  No;  but  A  know  th' 
language  o'  th'  man  on  the  street;  an  A  know 
life;  an'  A  know  God;  an'  A  know  how  to  putt 
righteousness  in  the  end  o'  my  doubled  fist; 
which  is  what  th'  world  is  wantin'.  Y'r  learned 
men,  what  are  they  doin'  for  th'  man  on  the 
street?  'Darkening  counsel  without  knowl 
edge,'  while  the  people  go  gropin'  in  the  dark  for 
light. 

"Y'  wonder  how  a  man,  who  was  a  whiskey 
smuggler  an'  a  gambler  an'  a  contractor,  who 


298  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

could  skin  the  Devil,  comes  to  be  a  preacher, 
Wayland;  a  missionary  t'  th'  Cree?" 

"Yes,  I  have  wondered,  sometimes,"  confessed 
Wayland.  "I  could  not  just  reconcile  you  with 
the  poverty-stricken,  down-in-the-mouth — " 

" Don't  say  'poverty-stricken',  Wayland!  A'm 
.  .  .  rich.  A Ve  never  known  want!  God  has 
taken  care  of  me  since  A  put  it  squarely  up  to 
Him!  A  Ve  my  wife!  A  Ve  my  children !  AVe 
my  ranch;  an'  my  ranch  pays  for  the  school! 
AVe  never  known  want!  Wiry,  man,  thirty  dol 
lars  a  year  is  more  than  A  need  for  m'  clothes! 
A'm  rich!  What  wud  A  be  doin'  goin'  among 
a  lot  o'  kiddie  boys  t'  study  Hebrew  when  A 
know  the  language  o'  the  man  on  the  street;  an' 
A  know  God  I  'Twas  the  bishop's  idea  t'  have 
me  come  t'  College  at  forty  years  o'  age  an' 
potter  t'  A-B-C  an'  white  collar  an'  clerics  but 
toned  up  the  back  an'  a'  the  rest."  The  old 
frontiersman  laughed.  "Poh!  What  for  wud  A 
waste  m'  years  doin'  that?  A'd  wasted  forty 
servin'  the  Devil.  A'd  no  more  years  t'  waste. 
A  must  be  up,  up,  up  an'  doin',  Wayland,  the 
way  y'r  up  an'  doin',  for  the  Nation.  A'd  earned 
m;  livin'  when  A  served  th'  Devil!  A  would 
earn  m'  livin'  when  A  served  God;  an'  as  A 
spoke  th'  Cree,  A  tackled  them  first;  an'  now 
we're  buildin'  our  hospital. 

"How  did  it  happen,  y'  ask?"  The  old  fron 
tiersman  sat  down  on  a  log.  "God  knows!  A 
don't!  A  can  no  more  tell  y',  Wayland,  what 


A  WORKABLE  FAITH  299 

happened  V  me,  than  y'  cud  tell  a  man  .what  corn- 
in'  off  th'  Desert  an7  bathin'  in  a  cool  mountain 
stream  was  like;  no  more  than  y'  cud  tell  what 
happened  t'  y',  when  y'  first  looked  in  her  eyes 
an'  read,  love!  God,  man,  it  was  love!  That's 
what  happened  t'  me!  A  all  of  a  sudden  got 
t'  see  what  life  meant  when  ye  bathed  in  love. 
God  looked  into  m'  eyes,  Wayland,  that  was  it! 
An'  all  th'  dirt  o'  me  shrivelled  up  an'  th'  mud 
in  m'  manhood,  way  yours  did  when  y'  looked 
in  her  eyes!  A  needed  washin',  Wayland, 
that  was  it,  an'  then  A  saw  Him  on  the  Cross 
as  y'  see  that — yon  Cross  there  in  the  sky. 
i Sense  o'  sin!'  Man  alive,  A'd  never  heard  them 
words  till  that  night." 

"What  night?"  asked  Wayland,  quietly. 

"Oh,  'twas  a  hot  night,  Wayland,  my  boy;  an' 
hot  for  more  reasons  than  one.  Th'  tin  horns 
an'  the  plugs  an'  the  toots  had  come  up  t'  our  con 
struction  camp,  an'  of  a  Monday  mornin'  after 
Sunday's  spree,  y'  cud  count  fifty  dead  navvies, 
Chinks  an'  Japs  an'  dagoes,  washed  down  th' 
river  after  gamblers'  fights  an'  chucked  up  in 
the  sands  o'  Kickin'  Horse!  Well,  a  lot  o'  big 
fellows  o'  th'  railway  company  had  come  thro' 
that  day  on  the  first  train.  There  was  Strath- 
cona,  who  was  plain  Donald  Smith  in  them  days, 
an'  Van  Horn,  who  was  manager,  an'  Ross,  who 
was  contractor!  A'd  been  workin'  m'  crews  on 
the  high  span  bridge,  there, — y'  don't  know, — 
well  no  matter,  'tis  the  highest  in  the  Rockies  an' 


300  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

dangerous  from  a  curve!  A  didn't  want  that 
train  load  o'  directors  to  risk  crossin':  wasn't 
safe!  M'  crew  hadn't  one  main  girder  placed; 
but  Ross  was  a  headstrong  dour  man;  an'  Smith 
— Smith  wud  a'  sent  a  train  thro'  Hell  in  them 
days  to  prove  that  railway  could  be  built.  Full 
lickety  smash  their  train  came  onto  that  bridge 
o '  mine  off  the  sharp  curve :  the  dagoes  went  yel 
low  as  cheese  wi'  fear,  th'  Chinks  chattered  in 
their  jaws,  an'  the  Japs:  well  the  Japs  hung  on 
to  the  girder  an'  the  cranes.  A  saw  th'  bridge 
heave  an'  swerve,  an'  th'  girder  went  smashin' 
to  th'  bottom  o'  yon  creek  bed  so  far  below  y' 
could  scarcely  see  the  water;  Boss  was  ridin'  wi' 
th'  engineer.  Boss  kept  his  head,  ordered  them 
to  throw  throttle  open.  All  that  saved  that  train 
load  o'  directors  was  th'  train  got  across  before 
th'  weight  smashed  thro';  way  a  quick  skater  can 
cross  thin  ice.  Man  alive,  but  A  was  mad,  risk- 
in'  m'  crew  o'  two  hundred  workmen  for  a  train 
load  o'  rash  directors!  Th'  train  stopped!  A 
dashed  up !  Eoss  opened  out,  his  throttle  was  full 
open:  so  was  mine;  an'  th'  steam  an'  smoke 
escapin'  from  yon  big  mogul, — well,  Wayland, 
them  was  my  unregenerate  days !  A  may  as 
well  confess,  Wayland,  A  gave  him  back  all  he'd 
given  with  sulphur  thrown  ia  extra;  till  Donald 
Smith  poked  his  head  out  o'  th'  private  car 
callin',  'Go  on,  Eoss!  Go  on,  what  are  you  de- 
layin'  for?'  Well,  then,  three  of  us  contractors 
and  th'  company  doctor  was  summoned  to  th' 


A  WORKABLE  FAITH  301 

coast  next  week.  We  were  all  so  mad  at  the  fool 
rashness,  we  had  our  resignations  in  our  pockets. 
They  had  our  pay  checks  ready;  but  when  they 
saw  all  four  of  us  had  our  resignations  written, 
well,  everybody  took  a  cool  breath;  an'  A  think 
mebbee  th'  wise  little  man  o'  that  private  car  sent 
across  something  to  help  us  wash  away  bitter 
memories!  Anyway,  'twas  a  hot  night,  Way- 
land!  Y'  couldn't  drink  one  of  the  four  un 
der  tli'  table;  an'  we  had  cashed  our  checks  at 
the  pay  car!  A  was  playin'  wi'  th'  doctor  for 
partner!  Mebbee,  it  was  that  little  night  cap 
from  the  private  car,  mebbee,  well,  in  an  hour  or 
two,  three  month's  wages  for  four  men  was  in 
the  middle  o'  that  table;  an'  mebbee  th'  loafers 
in  that  saloon  didn't  sit  up!  Mebbee,  somebody 
from  that  private  car  didn't  saunter  in  t'  look 
us  four  fools  over!  Wayland  man,  we  won  it 
all,  th'  doctor  an'  me!  Th'  other  two  wanted  to 
play  on  their  watches,  they  wud  a'  pawned  th' 
clothes  off  their  backs;  but  we  wouldn't  let  them! 
We  gave  'em  back  enough  to  grub  stake  'em  back 
to  their  job !  Then  some  one  says,  th'  vera  words : 
A  can  hear  them  yet,  ' Let's  go  across  an'  hear 
those  damned  evangelists:  there's  a  white  faced 
whiskers,  an'  a  little  clean  shaved  jumpin'  jack 
skippin'  all  over  the  backs  o'  the  church  seats 
pretendin'  he's  Henry  Ward  Beecher  an'  sayin' 
in  a  fog  horn  voice,  *I  like  that.'  Let's  go  an' 
raise  Hell. 
"Wayland,  man,  we  went  across!  'Twas  all 


302  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

true,  there  was  the  white  faced  fat  man ;  an'  there 
was  the  little  clean  chopped  chap  jumpin'  all 
over  the  backs  o'  th'  seats;  an'  there  was  a  lot 
o'  snivellin'  Saints  in  Israel,  women  that  cry 
an'  sissie  men  that  get  converted  an'  converted 
at  every  meetin'!  Man,  Wayland,  A'd  like  to 
dump  th'  job  lot  o'  such  folks  out  in  a  cesspool! 
They  do  religion  more  harm  than  the  Devil! 
They're  about  as  like  what  fightin'  Christians 
ought  to  be  as  a  spit  wad's  like  a  bullet!  Well, 
we  went  in  with  a  whoop;  but  God  wasn't  out  for 
the  sissies  that  night,  Wayland:  he  was  out  with 
a  gun  for  red  blood  men!  He  got  us,  Wayland! 
That's  all!  'Twasn't  the  poor  puny  preachers, 
perhaps  'twas  th'  music:  th'  fat  one  cud  sing,  but 
when  we  came  out  the  doctor  was  cryin';  poor 
fellow  he  killed  himself  in  D.  T.'s  later;  an'  A 
was  all  plugged  up  wi'  cold  in  m'  head  bio  win' 
m'  nose!  'Boys,'  says  I,  ' here's  where  I  get  off. 
Here's  y'r  money  back.  A've  put  up  a  pretty 
good  fight  for  the  Devil  so  far  an'  A've  earned 
m'  way!  Now,  A'm  goin'  t'  fight  for  God  an' 
earn  m'  way!'  They  didn't  want  to  take  the 
money  back.  They  didn't  believe  it.  A  fin 
ished  my  job  on  the  railroad,  then  A  slummed 
it  in  th'  cities,  this  was  when  the  bishop  tried  to 
turn  me  school  boy  at  forty,  an'  to  dig  in  y'r 
graveyard  o'  theology;  that  was  before  m'  brother 
was  bishop  and  why,  A  hiked  for  Indians,  Way- 
land!  A  know  the  Cree  tongue,  an'  A  know  the 
need  o'  decency  in  th'  tepees,  an'  A  know  the 


A  WORKABLE  FAITH  303 

trick  o'  puttin'  Christianity  into  th'  end.o'  m'  fist 
on  white  blackguards!  An'  that's  all." 

"Is  that  all?"  repeated  Wayland;  and  he  gave 
the  old  frontiersman  the  same  kind  of  a  look, 
Matthews  had  given  him  that  day  going  up  the 
face  of  the  Pass  precipice. 

"Yes,  that's  all  there  was  to  it;  an'  A  could  no 
more  tell  y'  what  happened,  Wayland,  than  y' 
could  tell  a  man  what  happened  when  y'  jumped 
in  that  pool  an'  got  washed  clean!  Better  try  it, 
Wayland!" 

They  sat  late  listening  to  the  gurgle  and  trill  and 
tinkle  of  the  water  slipping  over  the  stones. 
Neither  man  said  anything  more,  nor  mouthed, 
nor  kneeled,  nor  amened,  nor  did  save  as  men 
among  men  do  and  say:  but  somehow  Wayland 
had  never  felt  so  sure  of  the  God,  who  was  Love 
and  whose  Love  washed  men  clean,  being,  as  he 
told  himself,  'on  the  job.'  It  may  not  have  been 
religion;  and  it  may  not  have  been  theology;  but 
I  think  it  was  the  workable  conviction  that  many 
a  fighting  man  incorporates  into  his  life.  Per 
haps,  it  was  what  Christians  call  Belief,  only 
we  have  so  slimed  that  good  word  over  with 
hypocrisy  that  it's  hard  for  fighting  working  men 
among  men,  women  among  women,  people  on  the 
job,  to  mine  down  to  the  exact  business  sense  of 
those  old  religious  terms.  'Slimed  with  hypoc 
risy  1 '  Yes,  good  friends, '  slimed  with  hypocrisy. ' 
Have  you  not  known  men  and  women,  legions 
of  them,  who  shouted  their  fire-proof  Belief,  Be- 


304     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

lief,  Belief,  their  fire-insurance  Belief  that  was 
to  roof  them  from  rain  of  fire  and  act  as  an  um 
brella  against  the  results  of  their  own  misdeeds; 
who  underscored  their  Bibles,  and  prayed  long 
and  loud,  and  proclaimed  themselves  right,  when 
every  day,  every  act  of  every  day,  every  leaster- 
most  act  of  very  hour,  shouted  blasphemous  de 
nial  of  what  so  ever  is  lovely  and  pure  and  unsel 
fish  and  Christlike;  whose  influence  damned  and 
injured  and  blighted  every  life  it  touched?  You 
must  not  blame  business  men  and  women  for 
wanting  a  workable  faith,  a  faith  that  will  deliver 
the  goods  on  the  job. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    HAPPY   AND   TBIUMPHANT    HOME-COMING 

They  were  up  before  sunrise  following  along 
a  rock  trail  against  the  face  of  a  mountain 
through  the  morning  mists,  when  they  turned  a 
sharp  crag  and  came  suddenly  on  one  of  those 
flower  slopes  bevelled  out  of  the  forests  by  snow 
or  ice.  The  slant  sunlight  met  their  faces,  and 
the  mists  were  lifting  in  a  curtain,  with  a  riffle 
of  wind  that  ran  through  the  grasses  like  the  rip 
ple  of  waves  to  the  touch  of  unseen  feet.  The 
slope  lay  literally  a  field  of  gold,  spikes  and  um 
bels  of  gold — the  gold  of  yellow  midsummer  light 
dyed  in  the  asters  and  sunflowers  and  great  flow 
ered  gaillardias  and  golden  rod,  with  an  odor 
of  dried  grasses  or  mint  or  cloves. 

"By  George,"  cried  Wayland,  "you'd  not  be 
lieve  it !  Only  seven  weeks ;  look ! ' ' 

Matthews  looked  but  apparently  did  not  see. 

"Don't  you  see?  It's  the  place  where  the 
snow  slide  slumped  down!" 

"But  where  in  the  name  o'  conscience  is  all 
yon  snow;  and  where 's  th'  bodies,  Wayland !" 

"Washed  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  Lake 
Behind  the  Peak  by  this  time;  or  you  may 

305 


306  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

find  a  great  rock  pile  at  the  foot  of  the  slope." 

"A'm  thinkin'  they'll  lie  quiet  till  the  crack 
o'  doom,  Wayland;  but,  but  do  y'  no'  see  a  tent 
back  in  yon  larches  across  th'  slide,  man,  where 
the  thing  knocked  us  both  sprawlin'?" 

"By  George,  yes,  I  do!  Wonder  if  they're 
homesteading  this  next?  It's  off  the  N.  F." 

They  put  their  ponies  to  an  easy  lope  across 
the  slope  and  came  on  a  tepee  tent  with  the  flap 
laced  tight  and  no  sign  of  life,  but  a  horse  lazily 
floundering  up  beside  a  large  fallen  log,  an  empty 
whiskey  bottle  on  the  log,  and  a  man's  boot  leg 
protruding  from  beneath  the  tent  skirt. 

"A'm  wonderin'  if  there's  a  leg  in  that  boot, 
[Wayland." 

"It's  the  sheriff's  horse,"  said  Wayland. 

"It  is,  is  it?  And  this  is  off  y'r  Forest  Kange; 
an'  y'r  not  responsible  for  what  A  may  be 
tempted  to  do?" 

The  old  frontiersman  literally  avalanched  off 
his  broncho  and  made  a  dash  at  the  tent  flap, 
f  rapping  it  loudly  with  the  flat  of  his  hand. 

"Here  you — anybody    inside?" 

No  response  came  from  the  owner  of  the  leg. 

"Here  you,  waken  up"  Matthews  caught  hold 
of  the  leg  and  pulled  and  pulled.  There  was  a 
splutter  of  snorts,  and,  'what  in  Hell's,'  and  the 
fat  girth  of  an  apple-shaped  body  ripped  the  tent 
pegging  free  and  came  out  under  the  tepee  skirt 
followed  by  another  leg,  and  two  oozy  hands 
flabbily  clawing  at  the  grass  roots  to  stop  the 


THE  HAPPY  HOME-COMING  307 

unusual  exit.  One  hand  held  a  flat  flask  and  the 
air  became  flavored  with  the  second-hand  fumes 
of  a  whiskey  cask.  The  sheriff  rolled  over  after 
the  manner  of  apple-shaped  bodies  and  sat  up 
on  the  end  of  his  spine  rubbing  his  eyes.  Then, 
he  recollected  the  dignity  of  his  office  and  got 
groggily  to  his  feet,  steadying  himself  by  clutches 
at  the  tent  flap.  Then,  he  emitted  a  hiccough. 
1  *  'Scuse  m  ',' '  he  said  thickly.  ' '  I  'm  not  well,  thas 
Ish  not  really  well !  Will  one  of  y '  pleash  gimme 
a  drink  o'  water?  I  been  chasin'  those  damn- 
cow-boy-outlawsh  seven  weeks  sclean  'cross  Shate 
Sline,  I'm  dead  beat  out.  Thas  you,  ain't  it  Way- 
land?  Kindsh  o'  you  both  come  after  me!  Saw 
y'  pash  tha'  day  y'  called  t'  door!  Wife  tol'  me 
to  hide — not  risk  m'  life,  women  're  all  thas  way; 
skeary;  skeary.  Well,  I  bin  out  ever  shince  y' 
pashed!  I  nearly  got  'em,  too!  I  caught  'em 
right  in  here  day  after  shnow  slide  had  'em  cor 
nered!  Gosh,  bullets  was  pretty  thick  fur  about 
half -an-hour ;  bu'  I  cud'nt  chross  Shtate  Line." 
Something  in  the  old  frontiersman's  widening 
eyes  and  glowering  brows  stopped  the  flow  of 
valor;  and  Sheriff  Flood  dragged  his  exhausted 
virtue  across  to  the  log  with  some  difficulty  as 
to  knees  and  elbows,  got  himself  turned  round  and 
seated. 

"Y'  been  out  huntin'  them  seven  weeks!" 
"Yes,    seven   weeks!"    His    articulation    had 
cleared  a  little.     "Please  gimme  m'  gun,  Way- 
land!" 


308  FREEBOOTERS  OP  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Y'  saw  them?    Y're  sure  y'  saw  them?" 

' '  Saw  them  1 ' '  Sheriff  Flood  laughed  in  a  thin 
little  squeaking  laugh.  "Gosh  A 'mighty,  I — I 
fought — them  single  handed  for  a  whole  half  day ! 
I  think  I  got  one!  Least  ways,  there's  a  power 
ful  smell  som'pin  dead  comin'  up  below  the  Pass 
Trail.  It's  too  steep  to  go  down  to  see.  I  wish 
I  knew." 

"Ye  wish  ye  knew?  Ye  do — do  you?  'Tis  a 
wish  bone  instead  of  a  back  bone  the  likes  of  you 
have;  and  it  was  too  steep  to  see?"  Matthews 
megaphoned  a  laugh  that  echoed  loud  and  long 
and  scornful  from  the  rocks.  "I  saw  a  man  who 
was  no  sheriff  climb  both  up  an'  down  that  place 
too  steep  for  the  likes  o'  you  to  see;  and  he 
climbed  to  do  more  than  see!  'Twas  half  an 
hour  y'  fought  them  th'  first  version?  Now  'tis 
raised  to  half  a  day.  A'm  thinkin'  y'  be  apply- 
in'  to  th'  pension  bureau  for  a  hero's  triflin'  re 
membrance!  Hoh!  An'  y'  saw  us  pass  did  y'? 
An'  y'r  frowsy  dyed-haired  slattern  wife  told 
us  y'  were  away?  An'  't  will  be  a  week  y'  fought 
'em  when  y'  tell  it  again ;  an'  y '  been  huntin'  them 
seven  weeks  lyin'  sodden  drunk  in  y'r  tent  wi' 
a  whiskey  keg  from  th'  cellar  o'  y'r  white-vested 
friend?  Hoh?" 

He  caught  the  flabby  body  by  the  collar,  spin 
ning  the  dignity  of  the  law  round  face  down 
prone  upon  the  log.  "A '11  not  take  my  fist  t'  y' 
as  A  wud  t'  a  Man!  Ye  dastard,  drunken,  pol 
troon,  coward,  whiskey  sodden  lout  an'  scum  o9 


THE  HAPPY  HOME-COMING  309 

filth,  an',"  each  word  was  emphasized  by  the  thud 
of  the  empty  whiskey  bottle  wielded  as  a  flail. 

"Look  out,  sir,"  warned  Wayland,  rolling 
from  his  horse  in  laughter,  "you'll  hurt  some 
thing,  with  that  bottle. " 

"Hurt  something!  N'  danger  on  this  wad  of 
fat  an'  laziness  an'  lies.  (Thud  .  .  .  thump 
.  ,  .  and  a  double  tattoo.)  He  threw'the  in 
strument  of  castigation  aside  and  spinning  the 
hulk  of  flesh  and  sprawling  legs  erect,  began  ap 
plying  the  sole  of  his  boot.  "A '11  no  take  m' 
fist  t'  y'  as  A  wud  t'  a  Man!  A'll  treat  y'  as 
A  wud  a  dirty  broth  of  a  brat  of  a  boy  with  the 
flat  o'  my  hand  an'  sole  leather;  y'  scum,  y'  runt, 
y'  hoggish  swinish  whiskey  soak  o'  bacon  an' 
fat!  'Tis  th'  likes  o'  you  are  the  curse  o'  this 
country,  y'  horse-thief  sheriff,  y'  bribe-takin' 
blackguard  guardian  o'  justice  an'  right!  y' 
coward  not  doin'  th'  crime  y'  self,  but  shieldin' 
them  that  do." 

The  sheriff  had  uttered  a  splutter  of  filthy  ex 
pletives  at  the  first  blow,  then  a  yell ;  now  he  was 
bellowing  aloud,  chattering  with  terror,  scream 
ing  to  be,  "let  go,  let  go!  I  never  done  you  no 
harm.  I'll  have  y'r  life  for  this." 

"Y'  will,  will  y'?  Did  y'  ask  for  a  drink  1 
Wayland,  wait  for  m'  here!" 

The  Eanger  saw  the  white-haired  frontiersman 
seize  one  sprawling  leg  and  the  shirt  front  of  the 
struggling  limp  thing  in  his  hands.  He  heard 
him  plunging  down  through  the  tangle  of  wind- 


310     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

fall  and  brush.  There  was  a  bellowing  howl  and 
a  splash;  and  Wayland  being  altogether  human 
flesh  and  blood  doubled  up  on  the  ground  with 
laughter. 

i 'That '11  cool  him,"  remarked  Matthews  com 
ing  back  very  red  of  face  and  sober,  "an*  it's 
not  deep  enough  to  drown." 

He  tore  open  the  tent  flap  and  rolled  out  a  small 
keg.  There  was  a  sound  of  dregs  still  rinsing 
round  inside.  They  could  hear  the  bellows  from 
the  brook.  The  majesty  of  the  law  had  evidently 
crawled  out  on  the  far  side. 

"He's  the  kind  o'  brave  man  will  slap  children, 
an'  call  a  boy  a  calf,  an'  bully  timid  women,  an' 
knock  down  little  Chinks  and  dagoes!  Oh,  A 
know  his  kind  o'  thunder-barrel  bravery,  that 
makes  the  more  noise  the  emptier  and  bigger  it 
is — they're  thick  as  louse  ticks  under  the  slimy 
side  of  a  dirty  board  in  this  world,  Wayland; 
an'  they're  thick  in  the  girth  an'  thicker  in  the 
skull."  Matthews  had  taken  one  of  the  Forest 
axes  from  the  saddle.  He  left  the  whiskey  keg 
in  kindling  wood. 

"He's  camped  dead  beat  on  the  State  line,  all 
right,  Wayland,"  said  the  irate  old  frontiersman 
as  they  mounted  their  ponies.  "He'll  have  at 
least  some  scars  to  prove  his  story,  but  A'm  no 
thinkin'  he'll  boast  round  showin'  them  marks  o' 
glory !  'Tis  some  satisfaction  for  my  thirst  back 
in  the  Desert." 

"I  thought  it  was  about  here,  on  our  way  out, 


THE  HAPPY  HOME-COMING  311 

that  a  law-loving  Briton,  I  know,  gave,  me  a  ser 
mon  about  exceeding  law,  taking  the  law  in  our 
own  hands  ?" 
"Hoh!"  said  the  old  man. 

And  the  Sheriff's  tent  was  not  the  only  one 
seen  on  the  way  back  to  the  Eidge.  Where  the 
Pass  widened  to  the  Valley  above  the  Sheriff's 
homestead,  they  came  on  a  huge  miner's  tent 
boarded  half  way  up  as  for  winter  residence,  with 
eight  tow-headed  half-clad  urchins  thumb  in 
mouth  staring  out  from  the  open  mosquito  wire 
door.  There  was  a  smell  of  onions  and  frying 
pork. 

"What!  a  homestead,  here,  Wayland?  D'  y'r 
homesteaders  farm  on  th'  perpendicular,  or  the 
level;  an'  what  will  they  grow  on  these 
rocks  I" 

The  Eanger  had  reined  in  his  pony  and  was 
running  his  glance  up  the  precipice  face  for  the 
posts  marking  the  bounds. 

"What  do  they  grow?  Water-power,  I  guess! 
I'm  looking  for  the  lines.  The  fellow  has  his 
posts  in  for  a  wire  fence;  he  couldn't  get  a  hun 
dred  and  sixty  acres  on  the  level;  and  the  posts 
run  up  the  face,  by  George  he's  blanketed  a  cool 
square  mile,  mostly  on  the  up  and  down." 

"Your  territory,  Wayland?" 

The  Eanger  had  turned  looking  back  up  the 
Pass. 

"The  trail  marks  the  lower  bounds  of  the  N. 


312  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

F.,  but  this  fellow's  line  runs  clear  up  above  the 
trail.  If  you  bunch  this  fellow's  claim  with  the 
Sheriff's,  they've  got  forty  miles  of  the  Pass 
corked  up:  no  way  to  bring  the  timber  above 
down  but  by  the  River ;  and  they've  got  the  Kiver ; 
and  if  possession  is  nine  points  in  the  law,  they've 
got  our  Forest  road  besides.  We'll  have  to  give 
that  fellow  warning  and  if  he  doesn't  move,  break 
his  fence  down.'' 

"G-utt  dae."  A  big  burly  Swede  came  for 
ward  from  the  miner's  tent. 

"Are  you  one  of  the  new  settlers?"  asked  Way- 
land. 

"Yaw!  A  gott  pig  —  varm!  Tra  —  vor  — 
years  mak'  pig  money  liffln'  y'ere!  Mae  vornan, 
Ae  send  her  vork  citie ;  Ae  build  mae  house  y 're !" 

"All  these  children  yours?" 

"Yaw!"  The  man  smiled  bigly,  incredulous 
that  any  one  could  doubt. 

"Have  you  filed  for  a  homestead  for  each  of 
them?" 

"Yaw!"  The  man  smiled  more  pleased  than 
ever,  indicating  the  numerous  olive  branches  by 
a  wave  of  his  hand.  *  *  Gott  gutt  pig  varm !  Pat, 
Pat  Prydges  .  .  .  ho  sae  he  pay  mae  voman, 
one-huntred;  mae,  two  huntred;  mae  chil'en 
.  .  .  '  he  smiled  again,  bigly  and  blandly, 
"mabbee,  five,  ten.  Yaw — ?" 

' '  One  hundred  and  sixty  acres  each :  twelve  hun 
dred  acres  for  the  kids,  not  one  of  age,  a  quarter 


THE  HAPPY  HOME-COMING  313 

section  to  the  man!"     Then  turning  back  from 
Matthews  to  the  foreign  settler. 

"You've  got  a  thundering  big  farm?" 
"Yaw!    Ae  mak'  a  pig  yob  of  itt!" 
"By  George,  I  should  think  you  do  make  a  big 
job  of  it!     This  is  the  way  those  two-thousand 
acres  of  coal  lands  were  swiped!    Are  you  the 
fellow  I  gave  a  permit  to  cut  timber  up  on  the 
Bidge?    What  did  you  change  your  homestead 
for?" 

The  Swede  stood  smiling  showing  all  his  white 
teeth  and  wrinkling  his  nose  and  absorbing  the 
meaning  of  the  Banger's  questions  into  his  skull. 
"  Pat  did  utt,"  he  said. 

"Who?  Oh,  Bat!"  He  looked  at  Matthews. 
"Do  you  mind  riding  back  over  the  Pass  trail; 
so  we  can  go  to  the  Bidge  by  the  Gully,  the  way 
the  outlaws  escaped?  I  want  to  see  where  this 
fellow's  upper  lines  run." 

They  rode  back  in  silence  almost  all  the  way, 
coming  up  to  the  top  shoulder  of  the  precipice 
where  the  outlaws  had  come  tumbling  down  on 
Matthews'  hiding  place  a  few  weeks  before. 
Wayland  followed  the  lines  of  the  newly  planted 
posts,  where  the  wire  had  not  yet  been  strung. 

"There  is  not  the  slightest  doubt,"  he  burst 
out,  "this  has  been  done  to  force  a  test  case! 
Well,  they'll  get  it." 

"Wayland,  is  there  no  way  of  letting  the  public 


314  FKEEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

know  what  is  going  on?  A  bet  the  people  of  this 
State  don't  know!" 

"It's  against  the  rule  to  give  out  information 
any  more, ' '  answered  Wayland. 

"Man  alive — is  this  Russia!  Y'  mind  me  of 
Indians  in  the  conjurors'  tent:  they  tie  the 
medicine  man  hand  and  foot  and  throw  him  into 
a  tent;  and  he's  t'  make  the  tent  shake. 
Only  the  devil-Indians  can  do  it.  They  tie  y' 
hand  an'  foot,  then  they  expect  y'  to  serve  the 
Nation." 

"No,"  corrected  Wayland,  "they  tie  us  hand 
and  foot  to  keep  us  from  serving  the  Nation. ' ' 

And  the  Swede 's  tent  was  not  the  only  one  they 
saw,  as  the  reader  well  knows.  Coming  along 
the  Gully  on  the  Ridge  crest,  Wayland  looked  for 
the  pile  of  illegally-taken  saw  logs.  They  were 
gone.  There  was  nothing  left  but  a  timber  skid, 
and  the  dry  slash  and  a  pile  of  saw  dust  emitting 
the  odor  of  imprisoned  fragrance  in  the  after 
noon  heat ;  but  a  few  yards  back  from  the  pile  of 
saw  dust  stood  a  tepee  tent  with  the  flap  hooked 
up;  and  in  the  opening,  a  wide-eyed  diminutive 
child  with  a  very  old  face  and  a  very  small  frame, 
that  looked  for  all  the  world  to  Wayland  like  a 
clothes  rack  in  a  pawn  shop  covered  with  colored 
rags. 

"Waz  ye  wantin'  me  faather?" 

As  the  reader  is  aware  this  little  person  never 
lacked  speech. 


THE  HAPPY  HOME-COMING  315 

"H's  away!  H's  gone  t'  th'  citie  for  th' 
throuble  that's  comin'  on  about  th'  mine,  y'  on- 
derstand?  He's  wan  o'  th'  men  t'  be  on  hand 
if  there's  throuble." 

"Are  you  one  of  the  new  settlers?" 

* '  Yes,  sor !  M '  name 's  Meestress  Leezie  0  'Fin- 
nigan!  We're  come  upp  t'  live  three  years, 
mebba  four,  m'  faather  says  we  may  fool  'em 
on  less  than  five;  an'  we're  goin'  to  be  wal-thy, 
an'  we  won't  hev'  a  thing  t'  do  but  sit  toight  an' 
whuttle  an'  sput  an',"  it  was  the  same  story,  she 
had  told  Eleanor. 

"What  trouble  in  the  mines?"  asked  Wayland. 

"In  the  coal  mines,  sor!  There's  a  gen'leman 
come  from  Waashington,  an'  soon  as  the  Ranger's 
been  found,  there's  been  goin's  on,  sor,  bad  goin's 
ons,  soon  as  th'  Eanger's  back,  their  expectin' 
throuble;  un'  m'  faather 's  gone  down  for  to  be 
there,  he  saz." 

"Well?"  said  Wayland,  as  they  rode  on  to 
wards  the  Cabin. 

"They've  been  busy,  Wayland!  They've  been 
busy,  man!  You're  in  the  thick  of  it!  More 
power  t'  y'r  elbow!  We've  got  the  first  licks  in 
on  th'  sheriff's  carcass." 

"And  six  dead  men  to  the  good,"  added  Way- 
land  dryly,  "only  I  guess  they  don't  go  into  the 
reports,  they  are  missing!" 

As  they  approached  the  Cabin,  a  young  man  in 
gray  flannels  and  sailor  hat  sat  up  in  the  ham- 


316  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

mock,  looked  twice  at  Wayland,  got  up  and  came 
forward. 

"Are  you  Wayland ?"  he  asked,  with  a  con 
temptuous  glance  at  the  Banger's  disguised  suit. 

"That's  my  name." 

The  young  fellow  handed  him  a  letter  stamped 
from  the  head  department  at  Washington.  It 
stated  that  the  bearer  was  a  Federal  attorney 
sent  out  to  investigate  the  Smelter  City  Coal 
Claims  and  any  other  matters  bearing  on  the  con 
tests  of  the  Holy  Cross.  The  letter  was 
couched — Wayland  thought — with  peculiar  fri 
gidity,  as  though  he  and  not  the  coal  claimants 
were  the  guilty  party  to  an  undecided  contest. 
Then  he  glanced  back  at  the  bearer :  an  incredibly 
young  and  inexperienced  youth — not  more  than 
twenty-two  or  three,  barely  out  of  a  law  school. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  Wayland,  "Been 
waiting  long?" 

The  young  fellow  gave  him  a  side  wise  look. 

"About  a  week." 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  delayed  you;  but  one  of  the 
most  important  cases  we  have  ever  had  called  me 
away.  I  had  intended  to  go  down  to  Washing 
ton  and  explain  the  whole  situation." 

The  young  man  smiled  very  faintly,  and  was 
it,  contemptuously?  "A  good  deal  needs  ex 
plaining,"  he  remarked. 

"I  hope  you  made  yourself  at  home  in  the 
Cabin?" 

"On  the  contrary,  I'm  with  Moyese!    I  have 


THE  HAPPY  HOME-COMING  317 

arranged  to  have  the  coal  cases  examined  this 
week.  The  claimants  declare  the  coal  is  not 
worth  a  farthing,  and  this  case  is  seriously  dis 
turbing  the  title  to  the  land  where  the  Smelter 
stands/' 

"You're  a  geologist,  of  course?"  asked  Way- 
land  innocently. 

"No,  I'm  from  the  law  department.  We  con 
sidered  this  more  a  case  of  legality  of  title  than 
coal  values.  The  Company  has  kindly  consented 
to  let  us  examine  the  mine  this  week." 

"Kindly  consented ?  By  George,  I  like  that  con 
descending  kindness  from  pirates  and  thieves!" 

"But  there  are  two  sides  to  this  question,  Mr. 
Eanger :  what  good  does  coal  do  locked  up  in  the 
earth?  The  country  wants  coal  developed." 

"Exactly,"  answered  Wayland,  "and  not 
stolen  and  locked  up  in  a  great  trust  and  rings 
that  jack  the  prices  sky-high!  The  law  was 
passed  to  keep  these  pirates  from  stealing  coal 
with  dummies,  to  let  the  individual  who  hadn't 
money  to  hire  dummies  go  in  and  develop.  If 
you'll  walk  along  the  Eidge  here,  you'll  see  an 
other  of  the  contested  cases.  The  forests  are 
open  to  homesteading  wherever  the  land  is  agri 
cultural;  but  you  can  hardly  call  land  agricul 
tural  that's  a  sheer  drop  of  1,000  feet,  though 
the  big  trees  growing  on  it  would  each  build  a 
house  of  six  rooms.  If  you'll  walk  along,  you'll 
see  where  the  ' dummy'  business  has  begun  the 
same  game  as  in  the  Bitter  Boot." 


318  FEEBBOOTBBS  OP  THE  WILDERNESS 

The  young  bureaucrat  turned  short  on  his 
heel  and  strolled  down  the  Eidge  Trail,  with  an 
air  that  only  a  bureaucrat,  a  very  young  bureau 
crat,  and  a  very  cheap  one  could  possibly  wear. 

6 '  Well,  A'm— A'm  d— danged." 

"Wayland  burst  out  laughing. 

"Do  you  suppose  that  little  kindergarten  ass 
thought  he  had  come  and  caught  me  off  duty?" 

The  old  man  stood  dumfounded.  It  was  such 
a  happy  and  triumphant  home-coming  for  a  Man 
on  the  Job,  who  had  risked  his  life  for  seven 
successive  weeks  solely  in  the  cause  of  Bight. 
Matthews  slammed  his  hat  on  the  ground,  and 
stamped  upon  it,  and  clenched  his  teeth  to  keep 
in  the  words  that  seemed  to  want  to  hiss  out. 

"Man  alive.     A'd  like  V  spank  him!" 

Wayland  laughed. 

"I  guess  he's  staying  with  our  white-vested 
friend,"  he  said,  as  he  pulled  the  saddles  off  the 
animals  and  gave  them  a  slap  heading  down  to 
the  drinking  trough;  but  when  he  turned,  Ca 
lamity  stood  in  the  door  of  the  Cabin  holding  out 
a  letter.  He  forgot  to  greet  her;  for  the  hand 
writing  was  Eleanor's.  He  tore  the  envelope 
open  devouring  the  words  in  his  eagerness;  then 
his  face  clouded. 

"What  in  thunder  does  it  all  mean?    Listen. 

4 Dear  Dick:  I  don't  know  when  you  will  come 
home,  but  as  soon  as  you  do,  you  will  learn  of 
something  abominable  that  has  been  published. 
I'm  going  to  send  Calamity  up  with  this  every 


THE  HAPPY  HOME-COMING  319 

day  so  she  will  be  sure  to  catch  yon  first  thing/ 
("It's  dated  three  weeks  ago,"  interjected  Way- 
land.)  'They  have  struck  at  you  through  me. 
Don't  mind,  Dick.  They  did  it  to  make  you  stop. 
You  will  not  stop,  will  you?  It  didn't  hurt  me.' 
(Oh,  brave  beautiful  liar!  Does  the  Angel 
Gabriel  take  note  of  such  lies  by  women;  and 
which  side  of  the  account  does  he  put  them  on?) 
4  Father  says  a  fact  is  a  hard  nut  to  crack. 
You're  not  to  take  any  notice  of  this  attack  on 
me.  You're  not  to  flinch  from  the  fight  for  my 
sake  or  deflect  a  hair's  breadth  on  my  account. 
You  know  what  you  said.  Things  have  gone  so 
far  that  crime  is  invading  decent  lives.  Well,  it 
has  invaded  yours  and  mine;  and  you're  not  to 
slack  one  jot.  Dick,  I  command  it.  I  command 
it  in  the  name  of  that  seal  I  gave  you.' 


"What  in  thunder  does  it  all  mean?"  reiterated 
Wayland. 

"What  seal  is  that  she  speaks  of?  A'm  think- 
in'  if  you'll  read  that  pile  of  mail  in  there  on 
the  table,  you'll  find  out." 

"Any  ansher?"  asked  Calamity  softly,  by 
which,  you  may  guess,  dear  reader,  that  an  In 
dian  woman  has  a  heart  under  her  ribs  as  well 
as  you. 

"Wait,"  said  Wayland. 

He  tore  a  sheet  from  his  field  book.  This  is 
what  he  wrote  : 

I  shall  obey  you  implicitly,  my  Alder  Liefest. 
I  don't  know  what  it  is  yet;  but  I'll  not  let  it 


320  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

make  any  difference  in  the  fight  no  matter  what 
it  is.  I  have  thought  of  that  seal  every  day  and 
night  since  I  left  you,  and  all  day  and  all  night; 
and  I  couldn't  have  pulled  through  this  trip  if 
I  hadn't  had  that  well  of  memory  to  drink  from. 
You  saved  my  life,  tho'  you  don't  know  it.  Mat 
thews  will  tell  you:  and  you  saved  his  too. 

DICK,  (nth.) 

P.  S.  There's  a  funny  little  kid  up  here,  been 
left  by  her  father  in  one  of  the  settlers'  tents. 
She's  the  most  pitiable  little  object  I  ever  saw. 
I  think  her  father  is  a  drunken  tough  from  Shanty 
Town.  She  oughtn't  to  be  left  up  here  alone 
near  such  a  baby-eater  as  I  am.  I  wish  you'd 
come  up  and  see  about  her.  If  you  don't  come 
alone,  get  Mrs.  Williams,  or  my  friend,  Mat 
thews. 

Calamity  went  on  down  the  Ridge  and  Way- 
land  plunged  at  his  mail.  On  the  very  top  of 
the  pile  lay  a  newspaper  in  a  folder  marked  with 
red  "Important."  Before  the  pole  cat  begins 
operations,  he  chooses  his  target.  For  myself, 
I  think  discretion  is  better  than  valor  in  such  a 
case,  and  you  would  do  well  to  retreat  and  let  the 
little  genus  Mephitis  Mephitica  infect  the  air  for 
his  own  benefit;  but  Wayland  did  not  know  what 
was  coming  and  tore  the  paper  open  and  read. 
Then  he  flung  it  from  him  and  stood  looking  with 
blazing  eyes  at  the  thing  on  the  floor. 

"Read  it,"  he  said. 

The  old  frontiersman  got  his  glasses  labori 
ously  out  of  the  case  and  began  to  read.  The 
sun  was  behind  the  Holy  Cross,  and  he  stood  in 


THE  HAPPY  HOME-COMING  321 

the  door  to  get  the  light  on  the  paper.  When  he 
had  finished  and  looked  round,  he  saw  Wayland 
sitting  crunched  forward  with  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

"Wayland,  man,"  he  slapped  him  twice  on 
the  shoulder,  "look  up,  look  up  at  that  picture  on 
the  wall  above  y'r  bed." 

Wayland  took  his  hands  from  his  eyes.  The 
Alpine  glow  struck  through  the  doorway  against 
the  picture  on  the  wall,  the  picture  she  had  had 
Calamity  bring  down  surreptitiously  and  had  sent 
back  framed,  the  picture  of  the  face  above  the 
Warrior. 

"Man  alive,  why  w'd  y'  care  for  the  devil's  dirt 
and  skunk  stench  and  snake  venom,  when  y'  have, 
when  y'  have  That?  She's  a — a  trump!  She's 
a  thoroughbred!  Man,  y'd  know  she  had  th' 
blood  o'  Scottish  kings  and  queens  in  her  veins. 
Y'll  no  go  down  to-night,  Wayland,  when  y'r  all 
undone!  'Twould  hurt  her.  A  intended  tellin' 
her  to-night  why  A  came;  but  A '11  not  now! 
A '11  not  now!  She  must  not  run  from  this 
scandal.  She  must  face  it  down  before  she  goes, 
but  A '11  go  an'  see  her  father  an'  come  back  an' 
tell  y'.  Cheer  up  man!  'Tis  part  o'  the  fight." 

And  for  the  only  time  in  the  struggle,  Wayland 
let  go;  or  rather — his  manhood  got  from  under 
leash.  You  can  be  stoical  all  right  when  you  get 
the  blow.  It's  another  thing  to  be  stoical  when 
the  blow  hits  what  you  love.  When  the  curtain- 
drop  fell  on  Moyese,  it  fell  on  a  man  pounding 


822  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

the  desk,  kicking  furniture,  eating  up  the  tele^ 
phone,  turning  the  air  blue.  It  fell  on  the  Eanger 
sitting  crunched  in  his  chair  gazing  through  misty 
eyes  at  a  picture  painted  by  an  artist,  who  was 
an  idealist.  Was  he  down  and  out?  Was  Eight 
the  sport  of  fools? 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A   DOWNY-LIPPED    YOUTH    IN    GRAY   FLANNELS 

I  suppose  it  was  owing  to  the  fact  that  she 
was  woman  and  he  was  man  that  she  spent  that 
first  night  of  the  home-coming  in  dumb  hurt  won 
der  that  he  had  not  come  immediately  to  her; 
and  that  he  passed  the  night  in  restless  fevered 
fury,  knowing  well  that  you  cannot  both  control 
fire  and  fan  it,  fuse  metals  molten  and  expect 
them  not  to  forge,  keep  a  resolution  and  break 
it.  She  had  listened  eagerly  to  the  old  fron 
tiersman's  account  of  the  adventures  on  the  trail, 
up  the  Pass  precipice,  crossing  the  snow  slide 
and  in  the  desert,  where  the  Ranger  had  refused 
to  save  his  own  life  by  abandoning  his  compan 
ion;  and  the  narrative  lost  nothing  in  Matthews' 
recital  with  his  Scottish-Canadian  R's  rolling  out 
sonorous  and  strong,  where  he  was  moved  to  ad 
miration  or  anger.  The  sheep  rancher  sat  silent 
through  the  stirring  story  with  only  an  occa 
sional  glint  of  fire  from  his  black  eyes  gazing 
aimlessly  at  the  floor. 

"  'Cast  your  bread  upon  the  waters  and  after 
many  days  it  shall  return  to  you  again.'  'Minds 

323 


324  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

me  of  what  A  saw  you  do  for  this  woman  you 
call  Calamity,  in  our  old  Rebellion  Days." 

Eleanor  was  sitting  on  the  arm  of  her  father's 
leather  chair.  The  sheepman  glanced  up  warn- 
ingly,  but  Matthews  was  going  ahead  full  steam. 

"We're  both  older  than  we  were  in  those 
days,  MacDonald,  older  an'  wiser,  an'  for  m'self, 
A  should  add,  a 'good  bit  steadier!  You,  y'  were 
always  a  sober-faced  secret  lad,  MacDonald;  an' 
till  yon  day  in  front  o'  th'  Agency  house,  A 
don't  think,  A  hardly  think,  we  men  knew  what 
a  devil  was  in  y'!  A  can  see  y'  yet  as  y'  kicked 
th'  gun  out  o'  yon  blackguard's  hand  an'  let  him 
take  the  load  o'  buckshot  square  between  th' 
shoulders!  'Twas  a  handsome  thing  o'  you  to 
take  th'  poor  buddy  in  an'  give  her  a  shelter! 
How  does  she  come  to  call  herself  Calamity?" 

MacDonald 's  foot  came  down  on  the  floor  with 
a  clamp,  and  he  rose.  "She  didn't.  'Twas  the 
miners  in  the  Black  Hills.  She  used  to  bring 
in  so  many  hard-luck  chaps,  shot  up  by  the  Sioux, 
bring  'em  in  on  her  shoulders  from  the  hills  to 
the  camp,  that  the  boys  got  to  calling  her  Calam 
ity.  She  had  lost  her  good  looks,  and — "  Mac- 
Donald  shot  a  glance  of  warning  in  the  direction 
of  his  daughter — "and  the  same  old  story,  I 
guess;  she  was  off  the  market!  One  of  my 
trips  to  the  mining  camps  up  state,  I  found  her 
in  a  mess  of  rags  picking  crusts  out  of  the 
garbage  barrels  along  a  back  lane!  I  brought 
her  back  with  me.  Gave  her  a  week's  soak  in 


A  DOWNY-LIPPED  YOUTH  325 

the  bath  house — "  he  paused  as  if  .reflecting, 
"and  that  it  seems  was  foundation  enough  for 
the  hog-wash  that  appeared  in  one  of  the  papers 
here.  Suppose  we  take  a  walk  as  we  discuss  old 
days;  they  were  pretty  wild  days  for  discussion 
before  a  girl,  who  didn't  know  her  dad  before 
she  was  born." 

And  Eleanor  went  out  on  the  Ranch  House 
piazza  off  her  room,  while  the  two  frontiers 
men  strolled  down  the  river.  How  different  her 
outlook  on  life  was  from  two  months  before  when 
reference  to  Calamity  had  called  up  mingled  fury 
and  horror.  Now  that  she  understood,  anything 
in  this  Western  Country  might  be  possible,  and 
understandable,  and  explainable.  She  had  his 
hurried  pencil  note  where  she  could  feel  it,  under 
her  locket ;  only  the  locket  was  outside  above ;  and 
the  fly  leaf  of  that  field  book  was  inside  next. 
"Dick  (nth),"  he  had  signed  himself;  and  he  had 
not  come  down.  She  could  see  the  dark  shad 
owy  Eidge  from  her  piazza  chair,  and  hear  the 
subdued  laughter  and  lipping  of  the  waters,  and 
he  was  there — not  a  half  hour's  walk  away — and 
he  had  not  come.  There  was  a  full  moon.  She 
could  see  its  silver  sheen  on  the  Eiver,  on  the 
tremulous  poplar  leaves,  sifting  through  the  pine 
needles  and  in  opal  wings  round  the  far  lumi 
nous  cross  of  snow  on  the  mountain.  The  night 
hawks  and  the  swallows  dipped  and  darted  and 
cut  the  air  with  humming  wings;  and  once  the 
wire  gate  squeaked  to  some  one  entering.  Elea- 


326  FREEBOOTERS  OF.  THE  WILDERNESS 

nor  sprang  up  with  her  heart  beating  so  that  she 
could  not  speak;  but  it  was  only  a  white  hatted 
youth  in  light  gray  flannels  asking  Calamity  at 
the  basement  door  "when  MacDonald  would  be 
back."  Did  Eleanor  imagine  it;  or  did  the  citi 
fied  young  person  in  the  gray  flannels  with  the 
red  necktie  look  up  towards  her  hesitatingly,  with 
the  suggestion  of  an  ingratiating  smile  in  the 
pale  blue  eyes,  a  suggestion  which  she  could  not 
define  but  which  somehow  infuriated  her?  Poor 
pale  anaemic  youth!  He  was  not  used  to  having 
his  waiting  smiles  met  by  the  blaze  of  red  fury 
that  flashed  to  her  eyes. 

"  Calamity,  if  that  person  wants  anything,  tell 
him  to  go  out  to  the  bunkhouse  and  see  the  fore 
man.  " 

Then,  she  sank  back  in  her  chair  both  glad  and 
sorry  in  one  breath  that  Wayland  had  not  been 
there.  She  shut  her  eyes  to  drink  again  of  the 
memories  that  had  sustained  her  all  these  weeks ; 
and  felt  the  lift  and  fall  of  the  note  his  hand  had 
written,  pulsing  to  the  rhythm  of  her  breathing; 
but  the  memories  failed  her.  Memories  were  for 
absence;  and  he  was  here;  and  he  had  not  come. 
If  only  he  would  come  now,  how  she  would  greet 
him,  holding  him  unflinchingly  to  his  resolution, 
of  course,  and  of  course;  but  as  a  kind  of  second 
thought  in  the  back  of  her  head,  the  under 
motive  beneath  all  the  clamor  of  light  upper 
notes,  she  knew  to  the  inmost  core  of  her  being 
that  she  was  wishing  he  would  come  now  because 


A  DOWNY-LIPPED  YOUTH  327 

her  father  was  out  and  she  was  alone  and  could 
greet  him  as  flesh  and  spirit,  heart  and  mind, 
cried  out  to  greet  him;  to  touch  him;  to  spend 
themselves  upon  him  in  a  fierce  proud  abandon 
of  love  and  gladness;  to  give  and  take,  and  give 
and  take  again,  till,  till — what!  Was  this  the 
way  to  keep  him  standing  strong  to  his  resolu 
tions  ? 

And  shall  we  blame  her?  Does  the  beautiful 
thing  we  call  life  spring  from  postulates  and 
rules  and  mathematics;  or  from  the  spirit's 
altar  fires?  And  I  confess  I  never  see  the  thing 
we  call  vice  but  I  wonder  did  it  not  spring  from 
the  burning  of  the  refuse  heap,  which  poor  hu 
mans  have  mistaken  for  altar  fires? 

She  heard  her  father  come  in  late,  slamming 
the  mosquito  door  behind  him,  and  pass  across 
the  dark  living  room  to  his  own  chamber  with 
out  saying  good  night.  Once,  she  thought  she 
saw  a  white  sailor  hat  through  the  cottonwood 
hovering  along  the  road.  Then,  as  she  looked, 
the  white  sailor  seemed  accompanied  by  a  pan- 
ama;  and  she  crept  into  her  room  with  fevered 
hands  and  heavy  heart,  snacking  the  mosquito 
door  behind  her.  There  was  the  companion  bang 
of  a  door  being  hooked  below,  old  Calamity  keep 
ing  watch  as  usual  and  only  turning  in,  when 
she  heard  Eleanor  going  to  bed.  Eleanor  waited 
till  all  was  quiet.  Then,  she  drew  the  burlap 
portiere  across  the  mosquito  door,  and  lighted 
candle,  and  began  writing, — writing  what? 


328  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Was  it  some  dildo  of  oriental  song  she  had  read 
in  Europe;  was  it  the  burden  of  some  Indian 
chant  stirring  vaguely  in  her  unconscious  blood; 
or  was  it  but  the  simple  love  cry  of  primitive 
Woman,  of  that  woman  who  wandered  round 
about  the  streets  of  Jerusalem  calling  her  lover? 
"My  flesh  cries  out  to  touch  you,  my  beloved," 
she  wrote;  "my  hands  are  hungry  to  touch  you, 
and  my  spirit  is  hungrier  than  my  hands.  When 
you  were  absent,  I  drank  of  memories ;  but  now, 
you  are  back,  the  shadow  waters  have  gone;  I 
must  have  the  living.  If  I  could  see  you  but 
once,  I  know  this  wild  longing  would  lie  down 
and  be  quiet."  She  stopped  writing.  Would 
it?  Would  it  lie  down  and  be  quiet  with  just  a 
look?  A  look  would  be  a  deep  drink  of  living 
waters,  she  knew  that;  but  would  it,  would  it  lie 
down  and  be  quiet?  She  didn't  intend  ever  to 
stop  loving  him.  As  long  as  she  loved  him,  and 
stayed  where  love  could  grow  by  what  it  fed  on, 
would  it  lie  quiet?  Was  this  keeping  him  strong 
to  his  resolution? 

She  tore  the  paper  to  tiny  atoms  and  burned 
the  scraps  bit  by  bit  on  her  metal  paper  knife 
above  the  candle.  Then,  she  blew  out  the  candle 
and  drew  his  soiled  field-book  leaf  from  her 
breast.  She  fell  asleep  with  her  head  on  her 
arm,  and  her  lips  pressed  to  that  fool-thing  he 
had  signed  at  the  bottom  of  his  note,  "Dick  (the 
nth),"  whatever  that  meant. 

There  was  no  mistaking  it  next  morning  at 


A  DOWNY-LIPPED  YOUTH  329 

breakfast.  She  felt  strung  and  upset,;  and  her 
father  looked  at  her  strangely;  and  Matthews 
was  so  keen  on  covering  the  general  embarrass 
ment  that  he  aimed  too  far  in  the  other  di 
rection,  rattling  off  such  a  fusilade  of  Western 
stories  that  they  sounded  hollow.  She  forgot  her 
own  confusion  studying  the  two  men.  How 
stooped  her  father  looked !  He  looked,  what  was 
it?  Like  a  man  who  has  waited  a  long  time  for 
something  to  come,  and  when  it  has  come,  found 
himself  too  sad  to  seize  it.  His  eyes  looked  as 
if  he  had  not  slept;  and  Eleanor  now  observed 
that  the  frontiersman's  sun-burned  nose  had  a 
suspicious  shine  at  the  end.  If  she  had  not  been 
undone  from  her  own  bad  night,  she  would  have 
helped  their  efforts  to  cover  embarrassment;  but 
now  a  horrible  thought  came;  a  thought  born  of 
the  low  innuendo  in  the  scandal  story;  and  the 
thought  finished  her.  She  felt  her  self-control 
going  and  rose  and  fled  round  the  end  of  the 
table  to  her  room.  The  old  frontiersman 
stopped  mid-way  in  his  story  of  the  brats  of 
Blackfoot  boys  stealing  every  stitch  of  his  cloth 
ing  one  day  he  was  bathing  in  Lower  Saskatcb 
ewan.  Her  father  jumped  to  his  feet  and  threw 
out  one  arm  to  stop  her.  That  finished  Eleanor. 
He  had  never  done  such  a  thing  before.  The 
only  time  he  had  ever  shown  affection  was  that 
night  when  she  had  read  the  scandal  in  the  paper 
and  he  had  reached  up  his  hand  and  taken  hers. 
Now,  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  bowed,  broken, 


330     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

unspeaking.  The  tears  came  in  a  rain.  She  did 
not  hide  her  face  after  the  manner  of  tenderly 
nurtured  shrinking  women.  She  faced  him  with 
wide  open  lashes  and  brimming  eyes  and  burn 
ing  defiance. 

"Father,  you  don't  doubt  me,  too,  do  you?" 
"Doubt  you!     My  God  no,  child!    It's  only  I 
never  knew  how  much  I  loved  you  till  I  realized 
I  might  have  to  part  with  you." 

How  strange  and  non-understanding  and  non- 
understandable  these  men  creatures  were !  Elea 
nor  looked  at  him;  and  looked  at  him.  Then  she 
threw  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  the 
dark  sad  silent  face  with  a  frightened  tender 
fervor;  and  do  not  laugh,  dear  reader;  for  it  is 
only  on  the  stage  that  the  graceful  altogether 
elegant  curtain-drop  comes ;  but  the  old  frontiers 
man  had  somehow  got  himself  outside  the  screen 
door,  and  immediately  on  that  kiss  came  through 
the  mosquito  wire  such  a  thunder  clap  of  pulpit 
artillery  as  is  the  peculiar  prerogative  of  some 
large  gentlemen  when  they  blow  their  nose. 
MacDonald  and  Eleanor  both  burst  out  laughing ; 
and  Eleanor  noticed  it  was  a  large  red  cotton  one, 
two  for  ten  they  sold  in  Smelter  City. 

And  all  the  while,  Wayland  sat  crunched  in  the 
chair  of  the  Cabin,  gazing  and  gazing  at  the  face 
in  the  picture  above  "the  Happy  Warrior,"  till 
the  light  faded  from  the  Holy  Cross  and  the 
moon  beams  struck  aslant  the  timbered  floor,  and 


A  DOWNY-LIPPED  YOUTH  331 

Calamity's  shadow  stood  in  the  doorway  with  a 
basket  on  her  arm. 

"Meesis  Villiam  send  up  y'  supper,"  she  said. 

Wayland  ate  mechanically.  He  did  not  know 
that  he  was  bursting  out  with  angry  words  all 
through  the  meal. 

"To  think,  they'd  stoop,  they'd  dare  to  splash 
their  filth  and  hog-wash  on  her  skirts,  to  hurt 
me?  Well,  they've  got  me,  Calamity?  They've 
got  me,  old  girl!  But  they've  got  me  in  a  way 
they  don't  expect!  You  Indians  knew  the  courts 
were  a  fraud  and  lie.  They'd  have  cleared  this 
kind  of  blackguardism  up  with  a  knife.  Well — 
so  will  I;  but  it  will  be  another  kind  of  knife. 
You  can't  out-Herod  a  skunk;  but  you  can  bury 
it,  Calamity,  eh,  old  girl?  We'll  bury  'em  so 
deep  next  election,  they'll  never  see  daylight: 
then  we'll  pile  this  pack  of  exposure  on  'em  so 
high  they'll  never  get  up  again.  We're  out  for 
scalps,  Calamity!  No  more  fighting  in  the  open, 
eh!  We'll  spring  it  on  'em  the  way  you  Indians 
put  a  knife  in  a  man's  back." 

"Iss  it  Moy-eese,  heem  keel  little  boy?"  asked 
Calamity  softly. 

Something  in  the  soft  hiss  of  the  words  made 
the  Eanger  turn.  There  was  a  mad  look  in  the 
glint  of  the  black  eyes,  and  the  hands  were  knead 
ing  nervously  in  and  out  of  the  palms. 

"Yes,  damn  him,  it  is  Moyese,  who  is  at  the 
bottom  of  all  this  deviltry;  but  don't  you  worry, 
Calamity!  We're  going  to  get  his  scalp!" 


332  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

He  paced  the  Eidge  half  the  night  planning 
his  campaign.  He  would  go  first  thing  in  the 
morning  and  get  that  child's  story  of  the  mine 
and  the  "  dummy "  entryman.  Then,  he  would 
get  that  Swede's  affidavit  before  the  thick-tow- 
head  realized  what  he  was  after.  Then,  he  would 
get  a  trained  geologist  for  the  examination  of 
the  mine,  not  that  flannelled  kindergartner,  stuck 
full  of  bureaucratic  self  importance  as  he  was 
of  ignorance.  Then,  he  would  surprise  them  by 
doing  absolutely  nothing  till  election  time,  then 
" plunk"  it  all  on  them  through  the  opposition 
paper,  and  stand  back,  and  take  his  dismissal! 
Oh,  his  midnight  thoughts  raced,  as  yours  and 
mine  have  raced,  when  we  have  been  struck  by 
sorrow,  or  blackmail,  or  motiveless  malice!  He 
could  not  make  sure  of  it;  but  once  as  he  paced 
near  the  Eidge  trail  he  thought  he  saw  .  .  . 
was  it  a  form  in  flannels  accompanied  by  a  figure 
resembling  Bat's  sauntering  slowly  down  to  the 
Valley? 

When  Wayland  dwelt  a  moment  on  what  such 
a  conjunction  of  observers  might  mean,  his 
thoughts  jumped.  Could  Brydges  have  done  it? 
Back  in  the  Cabin,  the  face  in  the  picture  seemed 
sentient  and  shining  in  the  gloom.  It  was  an 
absurd  notion,  of  course;  for  the  picture  was  a 
shadowy  thing  in  dark  sepia;  and  there  was  no 
light  but  the  silver  reflection  of  the  moon  from 
the  Holy  Cross.  The  Holy  Cross, — what  was  it 
she  had  said?  Nothing  worth  while  ever  won 


A  DOWNY-LIPPED  YOUTH  333 

without  someone  being  crucified?  How  absurdly 
small,  how  remotely  contemptibly  impossible,  the 
scandal  thing  seemed  anyway,  as  though  a 
skunk  could  obstruct  the  avalanche  of  the  massed 
snow  flakes  by  sending  up  his  malodorous  stench 
across  the  path  of  the  Law!  And  he  loved  her 
and  he  had  her  love,  and  he  had  known  the  high 
est  blessedness  of  life,  and  nothing  could  take 
the  consciousness  of  it  from  him !  Wayland  went 
to  sleep  dreaming  fool-things  about  the  face  in 
the  picture.  Of  course,  you  never  dreamed  them, 
sleeping  or  waking.  At  break  of  day,  he  picked 
a  sprig  of  mountain  flower,  and  did  certain  things 
to  that  framed  picture,  and  rode  away  to  his 
day's  work. 

" Let's  go  np  and  see  that  little  runt  of  an 
Irish  lassie,"  Matthews  had  suggested  in  the 
afternoon;  and  they  were  leisurely  climbing  the 
Eidge  Trail,  the  old  frontiersman  yarning  and 
yarning  of  the  dear  good  old  days;  Eleanor 
thinking  her  own  thoughts.  They  met  a  downy- 
lipped  youth  in  gray  flannels  and  Mr.  Bat 
Brydges  wearing  a  panama  hat  and  an  "Oh-I- 
know-it-all"  air.  Both  dabbed  at  their  hats  to 
the  old  man;  but  Matthews  saw  them  not  till 
they  had  passed  when  he  stopped  and  turned  with 
a  look  over  his  shoulder  and  a  grunt.  Eleanor 
had  not  learned  yet  what  had  happened  to  the 
Sheriff;  but  somehow  the  old  frontiersman's  look 
gave  her  a  satisfaction.  Where  a  crag  jutted 


334     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

out  from  the  face  of  the  Eidge  and  some  spruce 
saplings  spanned  a  spring  trickling  down  from 
the  rocks,  Matthews  stopped.  This  was  the 
place!  Old  rascal!  How  did  he  know?  Has 
age  ever  been  young?  Eleanor  did  not  know  that 
he  was  looking  at  her,  did  not  know  that  her 
face  was  wrapped  in  mystery  and  light.  Sud 
denly  he  placed  both  hands  on  her  shoulder. 

"Eleanor,  y'r  a  magnificent  woman!  Y'  don't 
mind  me  callin'  y'  a  woman  ?" 

It  was  his  highest  compliment. 

"Y're  braver  than  my  wife;  an'  she's  the 
bravest  o'  them  a'!  D'  y'  know  that  my  wife 
came  half  way  round  the  world  t'  marry  me  an' 
go  penniless  to  th'  Indian  Beserve?  D'  y'  know 
when  she  found  the  Indians  sick,  d'  y'  know  she 
went  East  an'  took  a  full  four  years'  medical 
course  t'  be  able  to  attend  them?  D'  y'  know  she 
goes  all  over  the  Eeserve  day  an'  night  an'  for 
three  hundred  miles  among  th'  settlers  to  attend 
th'  sick?  But  duty  with  us  is  easy.  We're  rich. 
Duty  brought  us  together!  Duty's  goin'  t'  push 
y'  apart;  an'  y're  not  complaininV 

Eleanor  could  not  answer.  What  was  there  to 
say?  They  went  on  up  the  Eidge  Trail, 
Matthews  still  talking  to  let  her  think  her  own 
thoughts.  There  was  the  story  of  the  last  great 
buffalo  hunt  at  Battleford;  of  his  first  buffalo 
hunt  when  he  had  broken  away  from  the  other 
hunters  in  his  early  boyhood  days  and  the  buf 
falo  bull  had  got  him  down  in  a  crack  of  the 


'A  DOWNY-LIPPED  YOUTH  335 

earth  tinder  its  feet.  And  there  was  the  story  of 
his  first  Synod  Meeting,  "when  A  came  all  wild 
an'  woolley  out  o'  the  West!  My  five  brithers 
were  there;  they  were  a'  preachers!  One  is  the 
bishop!  Oh,  A  guess  they  were  on  needles  an' 
pins  for  fear  o'  what  A'd  do!  A'd  been  in  the 
West  so  long,  A  didn't  know  enough  not  to  go 
shirtsleeves  down  the  streets  o'  Montreal!  Well, 
been  a  hot  day!  'Twas  an  evenin'  meetin'!  All 
the  missionaries  to  th'  Indians  were  givin'  ex 
periences.  One  got  up  an'  he  wanted  th'  dear 
sisters  to  raise  a  little  money  to  build  a  fence;  a 
fence,  y'  understand?  An'  another  got  up  an' 
wanted  th'  dear  sisters  t'  have  a  sewin'  bee,  gos 
sip  buzz,  A  call  'em,  to  raise  a  little  money  for 
the  Lord  t'  build  a  school.  Losh!  A  stood  it 
long  as  A  could!  Then  A  jumped  up!  'Twas 
a  hot  night,  an'  A'd  ripped  off  m'  coat!  A'm 
no  sure  my  collar  hadn't  slumped  t'  a  jelly,  too! 
Says  I,  'If  y'r  reverences  will  excuse  a  plain 
Western  man  speakin'  plain  Western  speech,  A 
want  t'  say  A  don't  like  t'  hear  strong  well 
able-bodied  men  whinin'  an'  beggin'  th'  dear  sis 
ters  t'  help  them.'  Says  I,  'If  th'  brothers  will 
just  peel  off  their  coats  an'  build  their  own 
fences,  they'll  find  the  Lord  'ull  help  them  with 
out  any  whinin'  an'  beggin'!  Peel  off  y'  coats, 
an'  y'r  dude  duds,'  says  I,  'an'  go  t'  work,  an' 
don't  insult  God  Almighty  an'  disgust  the  women 
folk  wi'  that  milk-sop  bottle-baby  rubber-ring 
talk.'  " 


336  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

i i What  did  the  meeting  say?"  asked  Eleanor, 
surprised  out  of  herself. 

"Oh,  A  dunno  that  they  said  much  at  all! 
They  kind  o'  stomped,  tho  V 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IT   AIN'T    THE    TEUTH    I'M    TELLIN*    YOU:    IT'S    ONLY 
WHAT   I?VE    HEERD 

They  were  opposite  the  Cabin.  Now,  by  all 
the  tricks  of  stage-craft  and  story-craft,  the 
Ranger  should  have  been  standing  posed  in  the 
doorway;  but  he  wasn't.  So  different  is  fact 
from  fiction — so  much  harder,  always ;  so  brutally 
inconsiderate  of  our  desires;  so  much  more  sur 
prisingly  beautiful  than  we  can  desire.  The  door 
stood  open  and  empty. 

"Wait!  A  want  to  leave  a  note,"  said 
Matthews. 

"May  I  look  in  and  see  what  bachelor  con 
fusion  is  like!"  asked  Eleanor. 

She  wanted  to  see  if  he  had  noticed  the  framed 
picture.  Noticed — bless  you?  The  thing  hung 
skugee  on  its  nail;  and  there  was  a  sprig  of 
mountain  everlasting  stuck  in  the  wire;  and 
Eleanor  would  really  have  liked  to  see  whether 
the  glass  above  that  picture  were  blurred.  She 
leaned  over  the  couch  examining  it  while  Mat 
thews  wrote  a  note;  and  she  went  hurriedly  out 
of  the  door  hot  of  face  and  happy. 

The  old  man's  note  read:  We're  going  along 
337 


338  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

to  the  Ridge  to  see  that  little  Irish  runt.  If  you 
chance  back,  will  you  happen  along  to  see  the  old 
man.  I'll  keep  her  till  six. 

"It  ain't  the  truth  I'm  tellin'  y':  it's  ownly 
what  I've  heerd." 

Meestress  Lizzie  O'Finnigan  stood  in  the  open 
ing  of  the  tent  flap,  a  lonely  little  face,  a  lonely 
little  figure  in  her  tawdry  rags,  a  lonely  little 
soul  in  the  great  lone  Forest,  like  a  little  mite 
lost  in  the  big  universe,  Eleanor  thought.  She 
was  telling  them  about  the  "Throuble  expected 
at  th'  moine;  an'  faather  bein'  on  hand  t'  take 
a  fist;  an'  th'  gen'leman  from  Waashin'ton 
waitin'  for  the  Eanger  man  t'  come  back;  an'  th' 
goin's  on  raported  in  the  paphers.  Ah,  h'  waz 
a  baad  man,  wuz  the  Ranger,  faather  said." 

"Do  you  read  the  paper,  little  one?"  broke  in 
Matthews. 

"Nut  the  print,  sor,  but  I  do  th'  pitchers;  an' 
th'  murthers;  an'  thim's  all  pitchered  out  plain 
so  I  can  read!  Faather  sez  he  wun't  have  his 
independence  proposed  upon;  if  th'  don't  give 
him  twinty  thousan'  fur  settin'  toight  here,  he'll 
peach;  but  about  th'  mine,  th'  Eanger  man  iz 
expected  t'  make  throuble,  an'  faather  iz  all 
powerful  quick  with  his  fist,  sor,  'specially  when 
he's  in  drink;  an'  he's  t'  be  on  hand.  It  ain't 
th'  truth  I'm  tellin'  y',  sor;  it's  ownly  what  I've 
heerd." 

"And  if  you  sit  tight  here  for  five  years,  you 


"WHAT  I'VE  HEERD"  339 

are  going  to  be  wealthy?"  asked  Eleanor,  taking 
her  by  the  hand  and  leading  her  out  to  the  woods. 

The  unwonted  act  almost  startled  the  little  face. 
She  looked  up  at  Eleanor  questioningly.  "Y's, 
mam,  waal-thy,"  she  said.  "Faather  sez  when 
we're  waal-thy,  he'll  be  a  gen'leman  an'  Oil  be 
a  loidy." 

"All  you  need,  to  be  a  lady,  or  a  gentleman  is, 
to  be  wealthy?  Is  that  it?"  asked  the  old  fron 
tiersman  laughing. 

"Yes,  sor,"  said  the  child  solemnly,  "Faather 
wull  shure  be  a  gen'leman." 

"Do  you  like  living  here?"  asked  Eleano/. 

"No,  mam,  I  don't  think  much  of  it!  In 
Smelter  City,  there  wuz  curcuses;  an'  elephants 
on  all  the  bills  of  fare;  an'  loidies  dancin'  on 
th'r  heads!  Faather  sez  if  I  keep  on  dancin'  as 
foine  as  I  do  now,  mebbie  I'll  be  able  t'  dance 
on  m'  head;  but  I  wouldn't  like  to  dance  without 
any  skeerts,  wud  y'?" 

"No,  A  wouldn't,"  answered  the  preacher 
quickly;  and  Eleanor  laughed. 

It  was  all  so  ludicrously  pathetic.  They  asked 
her  if  she  would  not  like  to  come  down  with  them 
to  the  Indian  School;  and  she  looked  wistfully 
and  did  not  answer.  Oh,  God  of  Little  Children, 
where  are  You?  Are  the  Lambs  outside  the  fold 
not  Yours  also  ? 

When  they  pointed  out  the  creatures  of  the 
woods  to  her,  they  found  she  did  not  know  a 
squirrel  from  a  chipmunk;  and  she  pronounced 


340  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

the  merry  chattering  "odjus."  When  a  cat  bird 
came  tittering  on  his  tail,  squeaking  out  every 
imaginary  note  of  gladness  and  the  frontiersman 
explained  that  this  fellow  sang  only  after  his 
family  had  been  raised  whereas  the  other  birds 
sang  before,  she  said  he  "wazn't  as  interestin' 
as  th'  elephants  on  the  bill  o'  fare." 

'  '  Let's  see!  There's  three  trails  here  about!" 
Matthews  was  cogitating  with  his  gaze  on 
Eleanor.  "There's  the  one  across  to  the  Upper 
Mesas;  an*  there's  one  back  behind  over  th' 
shoulder  of  the  Holy  Cross  down  to  the  Lake 
Behind  the  Peak;  an'  there  ought  to  be  one  be 
tween,  runnin'  up  to  the  snows!  Think  y'r  good 
for  climbin'  over  this  windfall  while  A  carry 
this  little  puss  on  m'  shoulder?  Steer  for  the 
snow  ahead!  Don't  mind  my  laggin'  back!  Go 
on  ahead  an'  wait  for  us!  A'm  goin'  t'  see  if 
A  can't  mine  down  to  some  gold  beneath  th' 
slime  o'  th'  slums!  It's  not  in  the  course  o' 
nature  that  any  child  should  be  blind  t'  this 
world,  Miss  Eleanor,  if  A  can  open  th'  doors 
for  her!  Go  ahead;  an'  if  y'  find  a  good  sittin' 
down  place,  just  rest  quiet  an'  wait  for  us  an' 
don't  worry  if  we're  long  comin'!  If  A  can't 
make  her  love  God's  big  play  ground,  A'm  no 
preacher!" 

Eleanor  laughed.  Her  last  mining  down  to 
veins  of  gold  had  not  been  a  particular  success. 
She  looked  back  at  the  two;  the  massive  thewed 
frontiersman  with  the  shock  of  white  hair  and 


'  '  WHAT  I'VE  HEERD"  341 

ruddy  cheeks  and  almost  boyish  eyes;  the  little 
tawdry  bundle  of  rags  on  his  shoulder,  with  the 
black  hollow  eyes  full  of  nameless  fear  and  name 
less  knowledge,  and  the  little  old  hard  mouth  with 
a  dreadful  tense  sadness  about  the  droop.  She 
heard  the  big  genial  voice  with  the  roll  of  Scotch- 
Canadian  drawling  out  its  r's,  and  the  child's 
thin  "Yes,  Sor,  m>  Faather;"  then  the  child 
burst  into  a  joyous  laugh.  Eleanor  wondered 
what  he  could  have  said  to  elicit  that  laugh. 
When  she  glanced  back,  the  old  frontiersman  had 
Lizzie  standing  on  his  outstretched  hand  holding 
to  a  branch  overhead  peering  in  a  deserted  hawk's 
nest.  Even  as  Eleanor  looked,  the  little  future 
acrobat  went  scrabbling  up  into  the  tree  with  an 
other  joyous  laugh. 

Then,  with  that  spirit  of  the  child,  which  pos 
sesses  us  all  when  we  give  ourselves  to  the  genii 
of  the  woods,  Eleanor  was  following  the  long 
lanes  of  light  between  the  giant  spruces — the 
long  lanes  of  light  that  lead  on  and  on  and  on, 
ahead  of  you ;  out  over  the  edge  of  the  world  into 
the  realms  of  dreams  and  holiday  and  joy,  where 
there  is  no  Greed,  and  there  is  no  Lust,  and  there 
is  no  nagging  Care,  and  there  is  no  Motiveless 
Malice  spoiling  things.  She  looked  up.  The 
gray  green  moss  hung  festooned  from  branch 
to  branch;  and  the  light  sifted  down  a  tempered 
rain  of  gold;  and  all  the  shiny  evergreens  shook 
gypsy  castanets  of  joy  to  the  riffling  wind.  She 


342  FREEBOOTEES  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

listened.  The  voices  behind  had  faded  away; 
and  the  air  was  vibrant  of  voiceless  voices,  of 
pixy  tambourines  beating  the  silence.  There  was 
a  hush,  the  sibilant  hush  of  waters  rushing  down 
from  the  far  snows  of  the  Holy  Cross;  and  a 
flutter — the  flutter  of  all  the  little  leaves  clap 
ping  their  hands;  and  a  big  voiceless  voice  of 
solemn  undertone — the  diapason  of  the  pines 
harping  the  age-old  melodies  to  the  touch  of  the 
wind's  invisible  hands,  melodies  of  the  soul  of 
the  sea  in  the  heart  of  the  tree,  of  strength  and 
power  and  eternity.  As  she  listened,  she  could 
fancy  some  vast  oratorio  voicing  the  themes  of 
humanity  and  the  universe  and  God. 

Then  all  the  little  people  of  the  woods  came 
peeping  through  the  greenery  surveying  her, 
weighing  her,  examining  her,  testing  her  spirit 
of  good  or  ill.  A  little  squirrel  went  scampering 
up  one  huge  tree  trunk  and  down  another,  just 
a  pace  ahead,  scouting  for  the  other  pixies  of 
the  woods,  till  with  a  scurr-r-r  and  chitter — 
chipper — ee,  he  whisked  back  in  his  tracks. 
"She's  all  right,  people,"  he  said.  Then  a 
whisky  jack  flitted  from  branch  to  branch  of  the 
under  brush — always  just  a  step  ahead,  not  say 
ing  as  much  as  was  his  custom,  but  peeking  a 
deal  with  head  cocked  from  side  to  side.  "No," 
said  Eleanor,  "I  have  no  camp  crumbs:  you  go 
back."  The  little  red  crested  cross  bill  twittered 
in  front  of  her  from  spray  to  spray  of  the  purple 
fire  weed  and  fern  fronds;  then,  concluded  that 


"WHAT  I'VE  HEERD"  343 

she  was  only  a  part  of  this  out  door  world,  any 
way,  and  went  back  about  his  business  on  the 
trail  behind.  Two  or  three  times,  there  was  a 
vague  rustle  in  the  leaves  that  she  couldn't 
localize — water  ouzel  in  moss  covert,  or  hawk 
babies  in  hiding,  or — or  what?  She  couldn't 
descry.  Then,  suddenly,  with  a  hiss — ss  and 
swear  plain  as  a  bird  could  swear,  a  little  male 
grouse  came  sprinting  down  the  trail  to  stop  her, 
ruff  up,  tail  spread  to  a  fan,  wings  down, 
screaming  at  her  in  bad  words  ' '  to  stop !  to 
stop!  or  he'd  pick  her  eyes  out!"  Eleanor 
naturally  stopped.  There  was  a  rustle  and  a 
flump;  and  a  mother  grouse  whirred  up  with  her 
brood — a  dozen  of  them  Eleanor  counted,  was 
it  a  second  family?  babies  just  in  feather, 
clumsy  and  heavy  of  wing;  and  the  little  man 
ducked  to  hiding  among  the  dead  leaves. 
Eleanor  peered  everywhere.  There  was  not  the 
glint  of  an  eye  to  betray  hiding.  She  laughed 
and  looked  back  for  Matthews  and  his  little 
pupil.  A  turn  of  the  lane  shut  off  all  view;  and 
again,  she  had  that  curious  sensation  of  a  vague 
movement  back  among  the  evergreens.  She 
glanced  forward.  The  light  was  shut  off  by  a 
huge  pile  of  windfall  giant  tree  on  tree,  moss 
grown,  with  cypress  and  alder  shoots  from  the 
great,  broad  dead  trunks,  a  pile  the  height  of 
a  house.  Passage  round  the  ends  of  the  up 
rooted  trunks  led  back  through  the  brushwood. 
Eleanor  stepped  to  the  lowest  trunk  and  began 


344  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

climbing  over  the  pile  by  ascending  first  one 
trunk,  then  back  up  another.  Almost  on  the  top, 
she  paused.  It  was  that  same  vague  rustling 
movement,  too  noiseless  to  be  a  noise,  too  evan 
escent  for  a  sound.  She  parted  the  screen  of 
shrubbery  growing  from  the  prone  trunks  and 
peered  forward. 

The  same  lanes  of  gold-sifted  light  leading 
over  the  edge  of  the  world  through  the  aisled 
evergreens,  but  at  the  end  a  glint  as  of  emerald, 
the  sheen  of  water  with  the  metal  glister  of  green 
enamel,  water  marbled  like  onyx  or  malachite, 
with  the  reflection  of  a  snow  cross  and  dun  gray 
shadows — shadows  of  deer  standing  motionless 
at  the  opening  of  the  aisled  trees — come  out  from 
the  forest  at  sundown  to  their  drinking  place. 
Lane  of  light?  It  had  been  a  lane  of  delight; 
and  that  was  what  all  life  might  be  but  for  the 
Satyr  shadows  lurking  along  the  trail.  There 
were  two  or  three  little  fawns,  just  turning  from 
ash  coat  to  ochre  gray,  nuzzling  and  wasting 
the  water;  and  one  of  the  year  old  deer  had 
turned  its  head  and  was  sniffing  the  air  looking 
back,  a  poetry  of  motionless  motion,  all  senses 
poised.  Eleanor  held  her  breath.  If  only  the 
other  two  would  come:  yet  she  had  put  back  her 
hand  to  warn  them  if  they  should  come;  and 
stood  so,  looking  and  listening.  She  remem 
bered  afterwards  by  the  nodding  of  the  blue 
bells  she  had  known  that  the  wind  was  away 
from  the  deer  to  her.  There  was  a  quick  step 


"WHAT  I'VE  HEERD"  345 

on  the  lowest  log.  She  stretched  back  her  hand 
to  signal  quiet.  The  quick  noiseless  step  came 
up  the  logs  like  a  stair — winged  feet.  She 
turned  to  see  what  effect  this  fairy  scene  would 
have  on  the  little  denizen  of  the  slums. 

It  wasn't  the  frontiersman  at  all.  It  was  the 
Eanger;  and  she  had  let  the  screen  of  branches 
spring  back  with  a  snap ;  and  the  deer  had  leaped 
in  mid-air,  vanishing  phantoms;  and  her  hands 
had  met  his  half  way;  and  his  eyes  were  shin 
ing  with  a  light  that  blinded  her  presence  of 
mind.  Then,  he  had  drawn  her  to  himself;  and 
afterwards,  when  she  had  tried  to  live  it  over 
again,  she  realized  that  she  had  lost  count. 

Shall  we  let  the  curtain  drop,  dear  reader? 
For  you  must  remember  you  are  looking  upon 
two  sensible  young  people,  who  have  resolved 
to  keep  each  other  strong  to  their  resolutions. 
He  had  planned  exactly  how  he  would  conduct 
himself  when  this  meeting  came;  guarded,  very 
guarded,  so  guarded  she  must  know  he  was  keep 
ing  a  grip  for  both.  And  she  had  known  ex 
actly  what  she  would  do  when  he  came:  she 
would  be  frank,  perfectly  frank  and  open;  for 
had  they  not  both  taken  the  resolution?  And 
;when  she  came  to  herself,  it  was  as  that  night 
at  the  Death  Watch — her  face  thrown  back  and 
he  was  kissing  the  pulsing  veins  of  her  throat, 
saying  in  a  voice  between  a  breath  and  a  whisper 
— "When  one  has  ached  in  the  Desert  for  seven 
weeks,  one  is  pretty  thirsty." 


346   FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Let  me  go,  dear!  This  wild  happiness  is  a 
kind  of  madness." 

"Give  me  all  you  have  for  me  in  but  one 
more!"  He  bent  over  her  face;  when  he  re 
leased  her,  she  was  faint. 

He  offered  her  hand-hold  down  over  the  tree 
trunks  to  the  lake;  and  when  their  feet  touched 
solid  earth  again,  took  a  grip  of  the  situation 
to  relieve  her  embarrassment  and  began  talking 
furiously  of  the  Desert  ride  and  the  dream  face 
that  had  twice  saved  his  life.  Eleanor  stopped 
stock  still. 

"Why,  that  was  my  dream,"  she  explained; 
and  their  hands  met  half  way  and  before  she  had 
finished  telling,  it  had  happened  all  over  again. 

They  were  standing  on  the  margin  of  the  lake. 
The  sun  was  behind  the  peak,  and  the  wine  glow 
lay  on  the  snow  cross,  and  the  topaz  gate  was 
ajar  again  to  the  new  infinite  life,  and  I  think 
they  were  both  a  little  bit  afraid.  An  old  world 
poet  has  said  something  about  fools  rushing  in 
where  angels  fear  to  tread.  The  mountaineer 
expresses  the  same  thought  in  his  own  more 
picturesque  and  I  think  more  poetic  vernacular, 
certainly  it  is  a  vernacular  next  to  life  rather 
than  books.  It  is  an  axiom  that  "only  the  most 
blatant  tenderfoot,  the  most  fumble-footed  green 
horn,  will  monkey  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice." 

The  marbled  water  shadows  deepened  to  fire 


"WHAT  I'VE  HEERD"  347 

in  the  Alpine  after  glow;  and  the  little  waves  of 
the  lake  came  lipping  and  lisping  and  laving  at 
their  feet. 

"  There  is  no  use  trying  to  tell  about  it  or  talk 
it  out,"  burst  out  Wayland. 

"Don't,"  said  Eleanor.  "Mr.  Matthews  told 
us  much  last  night:  and  I'll  dig  the  rest  out  of 
him  the  next  time  I  see  him." 

"I'm  not  talking  of  the  Desert.  I'm  talking 
of  you.  It's  so  God-blessed  beautiful,  Eleanor! 
I  used  to  think  and  think  in  the  Desert  what  this 
would  be  like;  and  it's  so  much  more  beautiful 
than  one  could  hope  or  guess.  Don't  you  think 
there  must  be  something  in  God  and  Heaven  and 
all  that?  Love  is  so  much  more  beautiful  than 
a  fellow  could  possibly  think?" 

"Don't  you  think  they'll  be  wondering  about 
us?"  asked  Eleanor. 

"Pooh,  no!  Matthews  told  me  to  come  on 
here  and  find  you!  He's  just  back  there  a  little 
way. ' ' 

"Did  he  plan  this!" 

"Course!  How  do  you  suppose  I  knew  where 
to  find  you!  You  see  now  why  I  must  not  see 
you,  if  we  are  to  keep  our  resolutions?" 

"Yes,  I  see!     Let  us  go  back." 

It  was  on  the  lake  side  of  the  logs  that  Way- 
land  paused. 

"I  don't  think  they  could  see  through  those 
logs?"  he  said. 


348  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Eleanor  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter  and  as 
cended  the  fallen  trunks  as  if  they  had  been 
stairs. 

They  came  on  the  other  two  sitting  squat  in 
the  middle  of  the  trail;  and  if  the  windfall  had 
been  opaque,  one  of  the  two  wore  an  expression 
on  his  face  as  if  he  had  guessed.  He  was  toss 
ing  a  handful  of  little  pebbles  up  from  his  palm 
and  catching  them  on  the  backs  of  his  knuckles. 

"We  didn't  make  much  o'  the  woods  an' 
birds, "  he  remarked  with  a  twisted  smile,  "but 
man  alive,  we  can  play  jacks!" 

Don't  smile,  self  superior  reader!  It  takes 
some  little  time  to  manufacture  a  snow  slide  out 
of  snow  flakes;  and  it  may  be  the  law  that  it 
also  takes  some  little  time  to  manufacture  a  soul 
out  of  slime. 

Passing  the  Cabin,  they  again  encountered  a 
downy-lipped  youth  in  gray  flannels  accom 
panied  by  a  fat  gentleman  with  tortoise-shell 
eyes  and  a  tallow  smile;  but  the  jaunty  dimples 
of  the  fat  man,  the  supercilious  lift  of  the  gray 
flannel's  eyebrow — froze  mid- way  at  sight  of 
Meestress  Leezie  O'Finnigan,  who  bowed  to  Bat 
with  the  gravity  of  a  mother  superior. 

"It  ain't  the  truth  I'm  tellin'  y'  ":  Lizzie  was 
loquaciously  going  over  the  story  for  the  twen 
tieth  time,  "It  ain't  the  truth  I'm  tellin'  y',  y'  on- 
derstand;  it's  ownly  what  I've  heerd." 

The  Ranger  dropped  out  of  the  group  at  the 
Cabin. 


' 'WHAT  I'VE  HEERD"  349 

Bat  stood  bellicosely  scowling  at  the  three 
figures  receding  down  the  Eidge  Trail. 

"What  in  Hell  is  that  old  parson  doing  with 
that  Shanty  Town  kid?  He'd  better  keep  his 
oar  out  of  this.'' 

"It's  a  free  country,"  said  Wayland  dryly. 
"Can  I  do  anything  for  you?" 

"We  came  up  to  notify  you  that  the  mine  will 
be  examined  to-morrow,"  announced  the  downy 
lips. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

I   AM    UNCLE   SAM 

"So  they  would  examine  the  mine  to-morrow? 
So  they  had  sprung  the  examination  of  the  coal 
veins  before  he  could  obtain  a  Government  Ge 
ologist,  and  the  coal  would  be  pronounced  worth 
less,  as  the  coal  involved  in  the  Alaska  cases 
was  pronounced  worthless  by  another  kinder- 
gartner  when  that  contest  was  impending.  Then, 
they  would  argue  and  consider  and  send  up 
briefs  and  send  down  decisions  on  the  value  of 
the  coal  till  the  statutory  time  had  expired  and 
the  law  of  limitations  would  bar  suit  for  resti 
tution.  Meanwhile,  Smelter  City  Coking  Com 
pany  were  using  half-a-million  tons  a  year,  and 
sending  away  as  much  again;  but  on  the  word 
of  an  ignorant  bureaucratic  cub,  the  coal  was  to 
be  worthless  and  the  brazen  steal  of  public  prop 
erty  to  be  sanctioned  by  law.  How  much  mineral 
land  had  been  stolen  in  the  very  same  way  in 
the  last  ten  years,  first  homesteaded  by  'the 
dummy '  foreigner,  then  for  five,  ten,  one-hun 
dred,  two-hundred  at  most  three-hundred  dollars 
a  quarter  section  on  false  affidavit  as  to  entry, 

350 


I  AM  UNCLE  SAM  351 

length  of  residence,  age  of  homesteader,  turned 
over  to  the  Eing,  whose  sworn  valuation  of  the 
coal  ran  from  $20,000  to  $40,000  an  acre!"  Per 
sonally,  Wayland,  as  he  thought  it  over,  knew 
of  fifty-thousand  acres  of  coal  so  stolen  in  Col 
orado  and  as  much  again  in  Wyoming;  not  to 
mention  three-hundred-thousand  acres  of  gold 
and  silver  lands  looted  in  the  South-West. 

And  the  looters  were  the  party  shouting  at  the 
top  of  their  voices  about  "vested  rights"  and 
"attacks  on  property"  and  "demagoguery  pro 
ducing  national  hysteria."  Where  was  the  re 
spect  due  "the  vested  rights"  belonging  to  Uncle 
Sam?  What  about  the  piracy  and  plunder  of 
the  property  belonging  to  Uncle  Sam?  Why 
ivas  it  valor  to  throw  a  burglar  looting  your 
house  out  by  the  neck,  and  "hysteria"  to  go  after 
a  burglar  looting  Uncle  Sam? 

Wayland  had  once  asked  Bat  Brydges  these 
questions.  Bat  had  looked  pained  at  the 
Banger's  obtuseness. 

"Wayland,"  he  had  exclaimed,  "who  is  Uncle 
Sam!  I  am  Uncle  Sam!  You  are  Uncle  Sam! 
We  are  all  Uncle  Sam!  That's  the  beauty  of 
democracy!  This  property  you  are  howling 
about  is  yours  and  mine ;  and  when  we  go  in  and 
develop  it,  we  are  only  taking  what  is  our  own." 

"What  about  the  fellow  who  isn't  in  on  a 
share!" 

"Share!  Quit  talking  Socialism,"  Bat  had 
commanded  with  a  grand  gesture,  leaving  Way- 


352  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

land  wondering  who  were  the  real  Socialists  in 
the  Nation. 

It  came  to  him  as  he  watched  the  panama  hat 
and  the  white  sailor  going  down  the  Eidge 
Trail  that  you  can't  argufy  national  problems; 
nor  compromise  on  them;  nor  enter  on  any 
treaty  of  peace  but  the  peace  that  is  a  victory. 
Brydges  was  Uncle  Sam;  and  he  thought  one 
way.  The  Eanger  was  Uncle  Sam;  and  he 
thought  another  way.  One  was  fighting  for  the 
vested  rights  of  the  few.  The  other  was  fight 
ing  for  the  vested  rights  of  the  many.  It  would 
have  to  be  fought  out,  the  fight  would  have  to 
come;  and  this  coal  case,  like  the  Eange  "War, 
was  one  of  the  preliminary  skirmishes  to  the 
Great  National  Contest.  Would  the  people,  who 
were  paying  fifty  cents,  a  dollar,  a  dollar-and-a- 
half  extra  for  every  ton  of  coal  bought,  because 
the  coal  areas  were  being  brought  under  the 
domination  of  one  Eing,  understand  and  waken 
up  and  rally  to  the  fight?  Or  was  it  as  Moyese 
had  declared  with  the  most  open  and  genial  cyn 
icism  that  "the  public  did  not  give  one  damn"? 

The  Eanger  crossed  over  to  the  telephone  and 
called  up  the  MacDonald  Eanch. 

1 ' That  you,  Mr.  MacDonald?  Matthews  back 
yet?  Oh,  gone  across  to  the  Mission  School? 
No,  nothing  wrong:  better  not  pay  any  attention 
to  the  little  Irish  kid's  babble  of  trouble  at  the 
mine!  They'd  hardly  dare  that!  Yes,  I  know 


I  AM  UNCLE  SAM  353 

they  did  on  the  Eim  Kocks;  but  that  was  daring 
only  you  and  Williams :  this  would  be  daring  the 
great  Government  of  the  greatest  Nation  in  the 
world!  Oh,  that  doesn't  bother  me!  The  point 
is — they  haven't  given  me  time  to  get  a  Gov 
ernment  expert  up  here;  and  this  fellow  is  evi 
dently  a  toady  for  Moyese.  I  want  an  extra 
witness  on  the  quality  of  that  coal:  want  a  wit 
ness  to  prove  it's  being  used  and  shipped  and 
sold.  Oh,  no,  not  both  of  you,  one  will  do,  either 
you  or  Matthews!  All  right;  will  you  go  down 
by  the  early  stage?  Better  not  go  down  with 
me!  I'm  going  to  set  out  now;  ride  down  the 
Forest  Service  trail,  camp  in  the  woods  and  ex 
pect  to  reach  Smelter  City  about  ten  in  the  morn 
ing.  If  you  leave  by  the  six  o'clock  morning 
stage,  that  will  be  plenty  of  time.  All  right, 
either  one  of  you!  Much  obliged!  Good-by!" 

An  hour  from  the  time  Eleanor  had  left  him, 
the  Eanger  was  on  his  horse.  He  did  not  go 
down  the  Eidge  Trail.  He  followed  the  National 
Forest  Trail  along  the  edge  of  the  Eidge  away 
from  the  Holy  Cross  Peak,  down  the  forested 
back  of  a  long  foot-hill  sloping  and  flanking  the 
Valley  almost  to  Smelter  City.  Locally,  the 
sloping  hill  was  known  as  "a  hog's  back";  and 
it  was  where  the  hog's  back  poked  its  nose  into 
the  Valley  far  below,  that  the  tangle  had  oc 
curred  between  the  Forest  Service  and  the 
Smelter  Eing.  Mining  was  permitted  in  the 


354  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

National  Forests,  of  course ;  but  the  mining  areas 
must  be  obtained  according  to  law,  and  paid  for, 
and  operated  individually,  not  homesteaded  by 
the  "  dummies, "  then  turned  into  a  consolidated 
ring  of  coal  owners.  What  made  this  violation 
of  law  more  flagrant  than  usual  was  the  fact 
that  these  homesteaded  coal  lands  lay  at  an 
angle  of  almost  ninety  degrees  in  a  sheer 
wall;  and  it  was  an  impossibility  for  any  home 
steader  ever  to  have  put  in  residence  on  them. 
Homestead  entry,  term  of  residence,  proof  and 
title,  all  exhibited  fraud  on  the  face  of  the 
records;  and  there  wasn't  a  man  in  the  Govern 
ment  Service  who  did  not  know  that.  What 
unseen  hand  had  juggled  entries,  title  and  proof 
through?  The  homesteaders  had  sold  out  long 
ago  for  a  song,  some  for  as  little  as  ten  dollars 
a  hundred  and  sixty  acres.  The  Eing  had  pos 
session;  and  as  every  man  in  the  Land  Service 
knew,  the  Government  had  pigeon-holed  all  rec 
ommendations  for  legal  action  to  compel  resti 
tution.  Would  the  wheels  of  justice  rest  inert? 
Would  the  presiding  deity  of  justice  be  so  blind, 
if  some  poor  man,  a  poor  man,  who  was  also 
Uncle  Sam,  stole  a  ton  of  coal  from  the  Eing 
operating  these  mines?  Why  was  it  possible  to 
steal  ninety-million  dollars'  worth  of  coal  from 
the  people,  and  not  permissible  for  one  of  the 
people  to  steal  one  ton  of  coal  from  the  Eing? 
.These  were  the  questions  Wayland  asked  him- 


I  AM.  UNCLE  SAM  355 

self  as  lie  rode  down  the  hog's  back  for  Smelter 
City. 

The  trail  down  the  hog's  back  sloped  grad 
ually  and  cut  fifteen  miles  off  the  distance  to 
Smelter  City  by  the  Valley  Eoad.  It  was  "the 
show"  trail  of  all  the  National  Forests.  When 
supervisors  came  to  inspect,  or  visitors  from 
the  East  who  wanted  to  give  accounts  of  hav 
ing  roughed  it  without  losing  an  hour  of  sleep 
or  carrying  any  scars  of  stump  beds,  or  when 
Congressional  committees  came  from  Washing 
ton  for  a  champagne  junket  to  report  on  all  they 
hadn't  seen — Wayland  always  conducted  them 
down  the,  hog's  back  trail  that  ran  along  the 
backbone  of  the  Holy  Cross  lower  slope.  He 
had  built  the  trail,  himself;  much  of  it,  with  his 
own  hands ;  cut  in  the  side  of  the  forest  mould 
and  rock  with  an  outer  log  as  guard  rail;  wide 
enough  for  two  horses  abreast  and  zig-zagging 
enough  to  break  the  descent  into  a  gradual  drop 
and  afford  new  vistas  at  each  turn,  of  the  Val 
ley  below,  of  the  Mesas  above  the  Eim  Eocks 
across,  and  of  the  Eiver  looping  and  sweeping 
down  to  Smelter  City. 

He  used  to  dream,  as  he  rode  down  the  bridle 
path,  of  the  day  coming  when  all  the  vast  do 
main  of  National  Forests  would  be  like  that 
trail;  not  a  stick  of  underbrush  or  slash  as  big 
as  your  finger;  not  a  stump  above  eighteen 


356  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

inches  high;  all  the  scaled  logs  piled  neat  as 
card  board  boxes;  open  park  below  the  resinous 
cinnamon- smelling  lodge-pole  line  and  engle- 
mann  spruce,  hardly  a  branch  lower  on  the  trees 
than  the  height  of  a  man;  and  such  a  rain  of 
tempered  light  from  the  clicking  pine  needles 
and  whorled  spruces  as  might  have  come  through 
the  rose  window  of  a  cathedral.  A  "show" 
picture  of  a  properly  conducted  National  Forest 
has  gone  through  all  the  magazines  and  news 
papers — It  represents  the  piles  of  cordwood 
clean  as  piles  of  pencils,  the  trees  standing  park- 
like  with  vistas  and  glades  and  opens  beneath 
the  tall  pinery.  Wayland  knew  in  his  own  heart 
that  his  Forest  was  better  than  that  "show" 
picture.  No  pictures  could  tell  of  the  pine  seed 
lings  stolen  from  a  squirrel  cache  scattered  on 
the  snows;  the  delicate  young  pinery  coming  up 
among  a  protecting  nursery  of  birch  and  poplar 
and  cottonwood.  No  picture  could  show  "the 
dead  tops"  cut  out;  the  "cheesy"  rotten  heart- 
wood  burning  on  an  altar  of  sacrifice  to  the 
deity  of  the  forest;  the  markings  on  "the  dead 
tops"  and  ripe  trees  and  trees  with  broken  top 
"leaders"  for  the  lumberman  to  come  and  bar-, 
vest.  No  picture  could  give  the  jolly  song  of 
the  cross-cut  saw,  the  musical  ripping  of  the 
oiled  blade  through  the  huge  logs,  the  odor  of 
the  imprisoned  sunbeams  and  flowers  from  the 
rain  of  the  yellow  saw-dust.  No  picture  could 
possibly  tell  you  the  life  story  of  yon  big  tree, 


I  AM  UNCLE  SAM  357 

the  warrior  of  the  woods  who  had  beaten  down 
all  competitors  and  enemies  and  wore  his  purple 
cones  like  the  tasseled  honor  badges  of  a  soldier, 
with  pendulous  moving,  plumy  arms:  yet  to  the 
eye  of  the  Forester,  the  life  history  was  there, 
in  the  fluted  grooved  columnar  bark,  in  the  knot 
scars  where  branches  had  been  discarded  to 
send  the  main  trunk  towering  above  its  fellows 
for  light  and  air,  in  the  wood  rings,  where  a 
branch  had  broken  and  fallen  away  in  the  strug 
gle.  Why,  this  noble  fellow  had  been  a  strag 
gling  sapling  a  thousand  years  before  the  birth 
of  Christ!  Before  Darius  led  his  conquering 
hosts  from  realm  to  realm,  or  ever  Caesar  knew 
life,  or  Christopher  Columbus  framed  mast  and 
spar  to  discover  America,  this  sun-crowned 
monarch  had  over-topped  his  fellows,  and  met 
the  challenge  of  the  blasts  of  heaven,  and  drunk 
of  the  wines  of  the  dews  of  an  immortal  youth, 
and  dieted  on  the  ambrosial  ether  of  gods,  and 
sent  his  seedling  offspring  sailing  ten  thousand 
airy  seas  with  the  wind  for  master  pilot  and 
never  a  craft  but  the  gypsy  parachute  of  a  seed 
with  wings  shaken  out  from  the  cones  purpling 
to  the  autumn  heat ! 

Air  ships?  Had  the  modern  world  gone  mad 
over  air  ships?  This  fellow  had  been  sending 
out  whole  navies  of  air  ships  for  thousands  of 
years;  seeding  the  mighty  mountains;  fighting 
all  rivals;  travelling  on  the  wings  of  the  wind, 
if  consumed  by  fire,  then,  like  the  phoenix 


358  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

springing  to  new  life  from  the  ashes,  sending 
forth  fresh  armadas  from  the  pendant  purplish 
cinnamon-scented  cones  split  open  by  the  heat 
and  so  releasing  fresh  winged  seeds! 

Wayland  used  to  dream,  as  he  rode  down  the 
hog's  back  trail,  of  the  day  coming  when  all  the 
National  Forests  would  be  a  great  park,  the  peo 
ple's  playground,  yielding  bigger  annual  har 
vest  in  ripe  lumber  than  the  wheat  fields  or  the 
corn;  yielding  income  for  the  State  and  health 
for  the  Nation.  Germany  did  it.  Why  couldn't 
America!  Why  not,  indeed;  except  that  she  had 
not  exterminated  her  pirates  of  the  public  weal, 
her  freebooters  of  the  wilderness,  her  slippery 
fingered  pick-pockets,  who  shouted  "I  am  Uncle 
Sam/'  while  they  picked  Uncle  Sam's  pockets? 

Eiding  down  the  hog's  back,  you  first  left  the 
larches  and  the  junipers  below  the  snow  line,  the 
junipers  beginning  to  show  their  berries,  the 
larches  yellowing  and  shedding  their  golden 
shower  to  the  approach  of  autumn.  Then,  a 
turn  of  the  trail;  and  you  were  among  the  hem 
locks,  funereal  and  sombre  in  the  distance,  won 
derfully  lightened  when  you  were  below  them  by 
the  sage-green  moss  and  the  pale  silver  blue  lin 
ing  on  the  under  side  of  the  leaves.  Another 
turn  or  two,  there  came  the  feathery  sugar  pine 
and  the  Douglas  spruce — the  monarchs  of  the 
North- Western  Forests — plume  decked  warriors 
carrying  a  glint  of  spears  with  the  scars  of  a 
thousand  years  and  a  thousand  victories  in  the 


I  AM  UNCLE  SAM  359 

wrinkled  bark,  with  cones  like  tassels,  and 
whorls  like  banners.  You  could  count  these 
whorls,  or  the  scars  of  the  whorls;  and  you  had 
their  years ;  and  the  bluish  green  shade  was  rest 
ful  as  the  repose  of  age.  The  smell  of  them, 
it  was  like  incense;  incense  to  the  deity  of  the 
woods;  and  when  the  wind  blew,  every  old  ever 
green  harped  the  age-old  melodies  of  Pan.  And, 
oh,  yes,  there  were  warriors  scarred  from  the 
fight,  fellows  with  corky  arms  and  mottled 
streaks  where  the  lightning  had  struck  and 
splintered.  Only  the  cheesy-hearted,  the  war 
riors  with  maggots  and  grubs  manufacturing 
punk  out  of  heart-wood,  for  all  the  world  like 
humans  infected  by  evil  thoughts,  only  the  hol 
low  hearted  came  down  to  earth  with  a  crash  in 
the  fray. 

Another  turn,  you  were  among  the  lodge-pole 
pines  and  englemann  spruce — pure  park,  Way- 
land  always  thought,  the  delight  of  a  Forester 's 
heart;  warm  human  open  park  places  where  you 
kept  looking  for  deer  though  you  knew  there, 
weren't  any.  In  riding  down  the  backbone  of  the 
Ridge,  Wayland  always  planned  to  camp  under 
the  lodge  pole  pines;  it  was  so  cool,  so  rain 
proof  and  sun-proof,  with  an  almost  certainty  of 
a  mountain  stream  somewhere  near,  and  if  you 
had  eyes  to  see,  a  game  trail  down  to  the  stream. 
To-night,  he  went  on  down  to  the  Brule,  a 
cross  section  of  the  mountain  swept  by  fire  years 
before  the  Forest  Service  had  taken  hold  in  the 


360  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

days  when  millmen  had  been  permitted  to  take  out 
windfall  and  burn  free,  and  all  a  millman  had  to 
do  to  become  a  millionaire  in  free  lumber  was  set 
the  incendiary  fire  going  to  create  windfall.  In 
his  own  district,  Wayland  knew  two  men  who  had 
become  rich  in  that  way;  but  of  course,  that  was 
long  ago.  The  Forest  men  had  cleared  out  the 
windfall  and  burn;  and  now,  the  deity  of  the 
woods,  Nature,  was  at  work!  By  the  moonlight, 
the  Eanger  could  see  the  pale  chalky  peach-bloom 
boles  of  the  ghost  birches,  and  the  satiny  poplars 
and  cottonwoods,  turning  gold  to  the  approaching 
autumn  but  going  down  gay,  twinkling,  laughing 
fellows  to  the  year's  death,  actually  clapping 
their  hands,  shaking  with  glee,  sending  leaves 
down  in  a  rain  of  gold,  which,  it  is  to  be  hoped, 
the  pixies  picked  up,  the  pixies  sailing  the  air 
in  feather  parachutes  of  flower  and  cone  seed! 
Wayland  could  see  these  airy  ships  between  him 
and  the  silver  moonlight,  dropping  seeds — 
seeds — seeds ;  seeds  of  fire  flower  and  golden  rod 
and  hoary  evergreen;  shooting  them  out  in  tiny 
catapults;  sending  them  up  in  dandelion  fluff 
and  sky  rockets;  catching  and  skimming  the 
wind  in  airy  canoes ;  tilting  the  winged  sails  to  a 
whifT  and  sailing,  sailing,  dropping  the  seeds  of 
life  for  a  thousand  years!  And  beneath  the 
birches  with  the  hundred  eyes  looking  out  from 
the  chalky  faced  bark,  and  the  poplars  laughing 
and  shaking  with  glee,  and  the  cottonwoods 
showering  down  a  rain  of  gold  in  their  death; 


I  AM  UNCLE  SAM  361 

stood  the  little  pines  seeded  by  the  wind,  nursed 
by  the  shade  of  the  quick  growing  trees.  Who 
would  be  living  and  loving  and  fighting  and  hat 
ing  and  winning  and  losing  when  these  little  fel 
lows  rose  to  toss  and  flaunt  their  victory  in  the 
face  of  the  sky?  Was  that  the  meaning  of  life 
after  all,  the  strength  and  thew,  the  valor  and 
might  of  the  fight  up?  Then,  it  was  not  such 
a  bad  way  with  the  Nation.  The  Nation  would 
be  the  better  for  this  fight.  Certain,  it  was,  the 
better  side  would  win.  Would  it  be  the  few  like 
the  sugar  pine  towering  over  its  fellows;  or  the 
many  like  the  lodge  pole  pine  and  englemann 
spruce  standing  in  serried  ranks  of  equal  valor 
and  power? 

And  if  you  think  he  could  take  that  ride  with 
out  wishing  to  the  "nth"  degree  that  she  could 
be  with  him  to  share  the  joy,  then,  I  assure  you, 
you  don't  know  to  what  music  those  gay,  twin 
kling,  trembling  gold  leaves  above  the  Brule 
were  beating  time  all  night  to  the  whisper  of  the 
wind  and  rustle  of  the  pixy  parachutes  sailing 
mid-air. 


CHAPTEE  XXV 

THE   QUESTION"   IS WHICH   UNCLE   SAM? 

Before,  it  had  been  a  race-reverie;  a  waiting, 
puzzled  and  uncertain  for  the  ways  of  life.  Now, 
it  was  the  joy  of  life,  the  fulfilment  for  which 
life  had  been  created  and  waited  expectant;  and 
whether  the  ways  were  any  plainer  in  the  new 
light,  there  was  no  room  for  wonder  in  the  ful 
ness  of  joy.  Eleanor  was  glad  the  little  bundle 
of  tawdry  loquacity  toddling  between  them  kept 
up  a  constant  stream  of  idle  boastings  on  the 
road  to  the  Mission  House,  about  being  "waal- 
thy"  and  "Faather  shure  bein'  a  gentleman  when 
they  were  waal-thy"  and  "herself  as  foine  as 
eny  loidy  in  th'  land,"  and  more  and  more  of 
the  same,  all  the  way  down  the  Eidge  Trail; 
which  was  not  so  fatuous  as  it  sounded,  when  it 
voiced  the  convictions  of  a  great  many  more  peo 
ple  than  the  little  unwashed  garlicky  Shanty 
Town  dancer.  Eleanor  wondered  if  the  same 
arguments  applied  to  the  culture  of  horses  and 
pigs  and  potatoes — size  instead  of  sort,  fulness 
of  stomach  not  quality  of  head,  area  of  posses 
sion  not  area  of  service. 

The  garrulous  babble  continued  to  the  very 

362 


WHICH  UNCLE  SAM?  363 

doors  of  the  Mission  School,  and  through  the 
formalities  of  an  absurdly  formal  introduc 
tion  to  Mrs.  Williams,  and  during  the  supper- 
time  meal  with  the  little  Indian  children  in  the 
big  dining  room.  Eleanor  noticed  how  Lizzie's 
lips  pursed  with  contempt  at  the  other  children 
and  the  little  stomach  poked  out  with  arrogance 
and  fulness  as  the  boasting  waxed. 

"That  kind  is  the  most  hopeless  of  all,"  re 
marked  Mrs.  Williams  in  a  low  voice,  amused  at 
the  amazement  on  the  faces  of  the  Indian  chil 
dren. 

Yet  Eleanor  was  glad.  The  babble  gave  her 
opportunity  for  withdrawal  in  her  own  thoughts ; 
and  when  she  came  back  to  the  Eanch  House  with 
Matthews,  leaving  Lizzie  still  boasting  at  the 
School,  she  hardly  noticed  that  her  father  stopped 
the  frontiersman  on  the  threshold,  but  she  passed 
out  to  the  steamer  chair  on  her  own  piazza. 
What  was  It?  Eleanor  could  not  have  answered 
if  she  had  tried.  She  only  knew  that  she  had 
drunk  of  the  fulness  of  living,  and  that  time 
could  not  rob  her  of  that  consciousness.  It  was 
there,  forever  with  her,  breathing  in  every 
breath,  pulsing  in  the  rhythm  of  her  blood, 
"Closer  than  hands  or  feet,"  as  the  Pantheistic 
poet  has  sung,  immanent,  enveloping,  posses 
sory,  obsessory,  warm,  living,  a  flooding  realiza 
tion  of  life,  giving  tone  to  every  touch  of  exist 
ence,  like  the  strings  of  the  violin  to  the  bow  of 
the  skilled  musician.  She  wanted  to  sing;  the 


364  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

long,  low,  jubilant  chant  of  womanhood  which 
no  poet  has  yet  sung.  By  the  joy  of  it,  she  knew 
what  the  sorrow  of  it  must  be.  By  the  purity, 
she  realized  what  the  poisoning  of  the  fountain 
springs  of  life  could  mean.  By  the  triumph,  she 
realized  what  the  defeat,  the  debasement  could 
be.  She  thought  of  love  as  a  fountain  spring,  a 
spring  into  which  you  could  not  both  cast  defile 
ment  and  drink  of  waters  undefiled;  as  an  altar 
flame  fed  with  incense  lighting  the  darkness ;  and 
one  could  no  more  offend  love  with  impurity,  than 
cast  the  dung  heap  on  the  altar  flame  and  not 
expect  blastment.  She  wanted  to  clap  her  hands 
as  the  gay,  twinkling  cottonwoods  were  clap 
ping  theirs  to  the  sunset;  to  dance  and  beat 
gypsy  tambourines  as  the  pines  were  throbbing 
and  harping  and  clicking  to  the  age-old  melodies 
of  Pan.  She  wanted — what  was  it?  Had  the 
Israelitish  women  of  old  timed  their  joy  to  the 
rhythm  of  the  dance ;  or  was  it  a  later  strain,  the 
strain  from  the  tribal  woman  of  the  plains  who 
heard  a  voice  in  the  music  of  the  laughing  leaves, 
and  the  throb  of  the  river,  and  the  shout  of  the 
sun-glinted  cataract,  and  the  little  lispings  and 
whisperings  of  the  waves  among  the  reeds? 
The  stars  came  pricking  out.  Each  hung  a  tiny 
censer  flame  to  the  altar  of  night  and  holiness 
and  mystery.  She  knew  she  could  never  again 
see  the  stars  come  pricking  through  the  purple 
dusk  without  feeling  the  stab  of  joy  that  had 


WHICH  UNCLE  SAM!  365 

wakened  death  to  life  when  recognition  had 
struck  fire  in  consciousness.  She  knew,  then, 
there  was  no  eternity  long  enough  for  the  joy  of 
It,  nor  heaven  high  enough  for  the  reach  of  It, 
nor  hell  deep  enough  for  the  wrong  of  It. 

There  was  a  click  of  the  mosquito  wire  door 
opening  out  on  her  piazza.  It  was  her  father. 

"Matthews  and  I  are  going  to  take  the  fast 
team  and  the  light  buckboard  and  drive  down  to 
Smelter  City  to-night.  Will  you  be  all  right, 
Eleanor  f" 

"I?  Oh,  of  course!  Nothing  wrong  is  there, 
Father !" 

"Nothing,  whatever!"  She  remembered  after 
wards  the  shine  and  look  of  lonely  longing  in  the 
black  eyes.  "We  have  to  be  in  Smelter  City,  to 
morrow  ;  think  it  best  to  drive  down  in  the  cool 
of  evening!  Day  stage  is  a  tiresome  drive. 
You'll  be  all  right,  Eleanor?" 

If  she  could  only  have  known,  how  she  would 
have  spent  herself  in  his  arms ;  but  it  is,  perhaps, 
a  part  of  the  irony  of  life  that  the  best  service  is 
silent ;  that  the  loudest  service,  like  the  big  drum, 
is  the  emptiest;  only  we  never  know  the  quality 
of  that  big  drum  till  a  specially  hard  knock  tests 
it.  She  remembered  afterwards  how  he  half  hesi 
tated.  He  was  not  a  demonstrative  man,  nor  a 
handling  one;  only  a  dumb  doer  of  things  next, 
regardless  of  consequences;  and  we  don't  realize 


366     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

what  that  means  till  we  are  too  old  to  pay  tribute 
and  they  to  whom  tribute  is  due  have  passed  our 
reach. 

"I,  oh,  of  course  I'll  be  all  right!  Would  you 
like  a  lunch  or  something  ?" 

"No,  never  mind!  Keep  Calamity  by  you! 
Go  to  bed  early,  have  a  good  sleep!  'Night, " 
he  said.  The  mosquito  door  clicked  and  he  had 
gone.  A  moment  later,  the  yellow  buck  board 
had  rattled  down  the  River  road,  and  her  father 
did  what  he  had  never  done  before,  he  turned 
and  lightly  waved  his  hat. 

If  Eleanor  could  have  known  it,  he  was  saying 
at  that  moment: 

"Matthews,  you  can  fight  the  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil;  but  you  can't  fight  against  the 
stars." 

The  old  frontiersman  didn't  answer  for  a  lit 
tle.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  very  soberly: 

"No,  when  it's  that,  you'll  work  for  the  stars 
spite  o'  y'rself !  Why,  A  contrived  the  meetin' 
myself  this  vera  afternoon;  wha'  d'  y'  think  o' 
that  for  an  old  fool?  A '11  be  goin'  back  empty 
handed,  an'  all  m'  own  doin'!" 

"And  I'll  have  built  plans  for  twenty  years  on, 
— on  the  sands,"  and  MacDonald  flicked  the 
bronchos  up  with  his  whip. 

There  was  a  long  silence  but  for  the  crunch 
of  the  wheels  through  the  road  dust. 

"MacDonald,"  said  Matthews  abruptly,  "A'm 


WHICH  UNCLE  SAM?  367 

goin'  t'  see  this  thing  thro'.  A  don't  mean  y'r 
daughter's  love;  th'  angels  o'  Heaven  have  that 
in  their  own  charge!  A'm  referrin'  t'  this  mine 
thing!  There's  evil  brewin'!  A'm  goin'  t'  see 
this  thing  thro';  an'  A  make  no  doubt  y'r  goin' 
to  do  th'  same!  A'm  no  wantin'  t'  pry  into  y'r 
affairs,  MacDonald;  but — is  y'r  will  made  an' 
secure?" 

The  sheep  rancher  flicked  his  whip  at  the 
bronchos  and  took  firmer  hold  of  the  reins. 

"  Copper  rivetted,"  he  said. 

We  call  It  clairvoyance;  and  we  call  It  intui 
tion;  and  we  call  It  instinct;  and  we  might  as 
well  call  it  x,  y,  z  for  all  these  terms  mean.  We 
do  not  know  what  they  mean.  Neither  do  we 
know  what  It  is.  We  hear  It  and  obey  It;  and 
It  brings  blessedness.  In  the  din  of  life's  in 
sistent  noise,  we  sometimes  do  not  hear  It.  That 
is,  we  do  not  hear  It  until  afterwards  when  the 
curse  has  come.  Then,  we  remember  that  we  did 
hear  It,  though  we  did  not  heed  it. 

It  was  so  with  Eleanor  after  her  father  passed 
from  the  Eanch  House  that  night.  Afterwards, 
she  knew  that  she  had  noticed  the  wistful  look 
on  his  face ;  but  the  memory  of  it  did  not  come  to 
the  surface  of  thought  till  she  heard  the  click 
of  Calamity's  door  in  the  basement  and  recol 
lected  his  words;  "Keep  Calamity  by  you." 
Also,  at  that  very  moment,  a  great  gray  racing 
motor  car  swerved  out  across  the  white  bridge 


368  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

from  the  Senator's  ranch  buildings  and  went 
spinning  down  the  Valley  road,  the  twin  lanterns 
before  and  behind  cutting  the  dark  in  the  double 
sword  of  a  great  search  light  that  etched  the 
sheathed  pine  needles  and  twinkling  cottonwoods 
in  black  against  a  background  of  gold.  Eleanor 
was  perfectly  certain  she  saw  the  same  two  hats 
in  the  back  seat  that  had  met  Wayland  at  the 
Cabin  that  afternoon. 

"Calamity,11  she  called  down  over  the  piazza 
railing. 

The  native  woman  came  up  the  piazza  stairs 
on  a  pattering  run. 

"Why  has  everybody  gone  down  to  Smelter 
City  to-night?  Is  anything  wrong ?" 

The  Cree  woman's  shawl  had  fallen  back  from 
her  head.  She  stood  kneading  her  fingers  in 
and  out  of  her  palms.  There  was  a  strange  wild 
look  in  the  dark  eyes  and  her  breathing  labored. 

"It  ees  Moyese,"  said  Calamity  slowly.  "He 
'xamin  d'  mine  t '-morrow." 

"Why,  Calamity,  that  is  perfect  nonsense! 
Moyese  won't  examine  the  mine,  at  all!  This 
young  fellow  from  Washington  is  the  one  to  ex 
amine  the  mine?" 

Calamity  continued  to  knit  her  fingers  in  and 
out.  "All  'same,"  she  said,  "Messieu  Waylan', 
he  telephone  Messieu  MacDonaP  come  'mine  help 
him  t '-morrow!" 

'Telephone  my  father?  Why,  how  could  he? 
I  have  been  right  here,  Calamity?" 


WHICH  UNCLE  SAM?  369 

"You  go  see  Missy  Villam,  leetle  ,gurl,"  ex 
plained  Calamity.  "Messieu  Waylan'  he  ride 
down  hog  back  trail  woods  all  night,  'lone!  He 
ring  ting — ling — says  he  go  'samin  mine." 

Then,  the  child 's  babble,  the  looks  of  the  two 
at  the  Cabin,  her  father's  wistful  face,  the  quick 
departure  of  Matthews  and  himself,  followed  al 
most  immediately  by  Moyese's  motor,  confirmed 
Calamity's  incoherent  account.  Eleanor  ran  out 
to  the  telephone  in  the  living  room,  and  rang  for 
the  Banger's  Cabin.  There  was  no  answer  on  the 
local  circuit,  and  Central  at  Smelter  City  could 
only  say  ' '  They  don 't  answer !  Try  local ! ' ' 

Yet  why  should  she  feel  such  alarm?  Had  he 
not  gone  down  to  the  Desert,  and  come  back,  and 
she  had  not  known  fear?  Was  the  fear  for  her 
father?  Was  it  her  father's  wistful  look? 
What  could  she  do?  Would  he  wish  her  to  do 
anything?  This,  too,  was  on  the  Firing  Line, 
but  reason  how  she  would,  she  could  not  subdue 
her  fears,  nor  keep  the  tremor  from  her  hands 
as  she  ran  back  to  the  bed  room  dimly  lighted  by 
the  candle  above  the  desk  at  the  head  of  the 
bed. 

"Calamity,  you  don't  think  there  is  any  dan 
ger  to  Father?" 

Then  Calamity  did  the  strangest  thing  that  ever 
Eleanor  had  seen  her  do.  She  had  thrown  off 
the  shawl.  She  had  drawn  herself  up  on  moc- 
casined  tip-toes,  and  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
thrown  off  age  and  abuse  and  disgrace  and  rags 


370  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

and  sin,  with,  her  eyes  fixed  stonily  on  the  far 
spaces  of  her  wrecked  youth,  the  lids  wide  open, 
the  whites  glistening,  a  mad  look  in  the  dilated 
pupils  shining  like  fire;  and  her  fingers  were 
knitting  in  and  out  of  her  palms. 

"M'  man,"  she  whispered,  "dey  keel  heem, 
dey  hang  heem!  M'  babee,  dey  take  it  away,  d' 
pries'  he  sing — sing  an'  wave  candle  an'  bury  it 
in  snow.  Leetle  Ford,  d'  keel  heem!  D'  punish 
Indian  man,  d'  hang  heem,  m'  man!  Moyese, 
he  keel  leetle  Ford :  he  go  free,  not  'ng  hurt  heem ! ' ' 
She  burst  out  laughing,  low  voiced  cunning 
laughter.  "I  go  see,"  she  said.  "I  ride  down 
hog's  back  t'  d'  mine!  I  go  see!  Messieu  Mac- 
Donal' — He  help  me!  I  help  heem!  I  go 
see,"  and  before  Eleanor  had  grasped  the  import 
of  the  words,  the  woman  had  darted  out  into  the 
dark ;  and  a  moment  later,  Eleanor  heard  the  base 
ment  door  clang.  There  was  the  pound — pound  of 
a  horse  being  pulled  hither  and  thither,  leaping  to 
a  wild  gallop,  then  the  figure  of  Calamity  bare 
headed,  riding  bareback  and  astride,  cut  the 
moonlight;  and  the  ring  of  hoof  beats  echoed 
back  from  the  rocks  of  some  one  going  furious, 
heedless  up  the  face  of  the  Eidge  towards  the 
hog's  back  trail. 

Eleanor  called  up  the  Mission  School  tele 
phone  :  Mr.  Williams  had  heard  nothing ;  he  didn't 
believe  there  was  any  cause  for  alarm;  the  child 
was  patently  and  plainly  an  astounding  little  liar ! 
About  Calamity!  Oh,  yes,  Eleanor  was  not  to  be 


WHICH  UNCLE  SAM?  371 

alarmed!  She  had  gone  off  in  those  mad  fits 
ever  since  her  baby  died  up  on  Saskatchewan. 
It  had  been  very  distressing;  was  in  winter  time, 
and  she  wouldn't  release  the  dead  child  from  her 
arms ;  they  had  to  take  it  from  her  by  force ;  she 
always  came  back  after  a  week  or  two  of  wan 
dering!  Would  Eleanor  like  some  one  to  come 
over  and  stay  in  the  Ranch  House?  And  Eleanor 
being  a  true  descendant  of  the  Man  with  the  Iron 
Hand  flaunted  personal  fear;  and  went  back  to 
a  sleepless  but  not  unhappy  night  in  her  room. 
Why  did  the  news  that  Calamity's  child  had  died 
bring  such  a  sense  of  relief? 

How  simply  does  life  deck  out  her  tragedies! 
There  is  no  prelude  of  low-toned  plaintive  or 
chestral  music  tuned  to  expectancy.  There  is 
no  thunder  barrel ;  or  if  there  is  a  thunder  barrel, 
you  may  know  that  the  tragedy  is  theatrical  and 
hollow  in  proportion  to  the  size  of  its  emptiness. 
And  there  is  no  graceful  curtain-drop  between  it 
and  real  life,  permitting  you  to  rise  from  your 
place  and  go  home  happy. 

MacDonald  was  stepping  into  the  bucket  to 
descend  the  last  shaft  of  the  mine  when  something 
on  the  edge  of  the  Brule  arrested  his  glance;  in 
fact,  two  things:  one  was  Calamity  coming  out 
from  the  trail  of  the  hog's  back  through  the  young 
cottonwoods  and  poplars,  riding  bareback  and 
looking  very  mad,  indeed;  the  other,  was  O'Fin- 
nigan  from  Shanty  Town  on  foot,  staggering  and 


372  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

mad  as  whiskey  could  make  him,  coming  up  the 
narrow  rock  trail  from  Smelter  City. 

"Go  on,"  said  MacDonald  curtly  to  the  others. 
1  ' I'll  keep  the  notes  safe  up  here,  and  give  Sheriff 
Flood  a  hand  at  the  hoist !" 

All  had  gone  well,  exceedingly  well,  in  the  ex 
amination  of  the  mine.  It  had  begun  sharp  at 
twelve  o'clock  when  the  day  shift  came  out  with 
their  dinner  pails.  It  will  be  remembered  the 
Eidge  sloped  down  to  a  burnt  area,  known  as 
the  Brule,  overgrown  with  young  poplars  and 
birches  and  yet  younger  pines.  The  Brule  slanted 
down  to  a  roll  of  rock  and  shingle  and  gravel 
above  the  City  known  as  Coal  Hill.  It  was  on 
the  face  of  this  hill  that  the  mines  lay.  You 
could  see  the  black  veins  coming  out  on  the  face 
of  the  cliff ;  and  into  the  cliff  penetrated  two  par 
allel  tunnels.  Up  and  down  from  these  tunnels 
rattled  the  trucks  on  aerial  tramways  to  and  from 
the  Smelter,  weaving  in  and  out  of  the  tunnel 
mouths  like  shuttles,  run  by  gravitation  pressure. 
If  the  mines  were  worthless,  or  worth  only  the 
five,  ten,  and  three-hundred  dollars  that  the 
King  had  paid  the  "dummy"  homesteaders 
for  each  quarter  section,  these  shifts  of  a 
hundred  men  at  a  time,  and  trucks  and  tram 
ways  would  have  offered  a  puzzle  to  any  one  but 
the  downy-lipped  youth,  who  had  come  to  ex 
amine  them. 

When  Wayland  arrived  at  the  mine  with  Mat 
thews  and  MacDonald,  he  found  the  federal  in- 


WHICH  UNCLE  SAM?  373 

vestigator  on  hand  with  Mr.  Bat  Brydges,  who 
was  out  for  news  features,  and  the  news  editor 
of  the  ' '  Smelter  City  Herald, ' '  who  somehow  gave 
the  Eanger  a  look  mingled  of  smothered  anger 
and  friendliness.  If  Mr.  Bat  Brydges  felt  any 
embarrassment,  he  did  not  show  it.  Indeed,  the 
handy  man  would  have  felt  proud  of  the  very 
things  of  which  he  had  accused  the  Eanger;  and 
it  is  to  be  doubted  if  the  door  of  decent  shame  re 
mained  open;  if,  indeed,  the  harboring  of 
thoughts  like  the  flocking  of  the  carrion  bird  to 
putridity  does  not  pre-suppose  a  kind  of  inner 
death.  And  as  the  party  were  donning  blue  over 
alls  to  descend  into  the  mine,  who  should  come 
on  the  scene  but  Mr.  Sheriff  Flood,  "to  see  that 
ev 'thing  waz  al'  right,"  he  explained,  exhibiting 
a  protuberant  rotundity  due  reverse  of  the  com 
pass  that  had  been  most  prominent  when  Way- 
land  last  saw  him;  and  if  the  doughty  defender 
of  the  law  felt  any  embarrassment,  like  the  handy 
man,  he  did  not  show  it.  Indeed,  this  mighty 
man  of  valor  could  truthfully  be  described  as  fat 
of  brain,  fat  of  chops,  fat  of  neck,  and  fattest 
of  all  in  the  rotundity  of  this  strutting  stomach. 
In  fact,  he  seemed  proud  of  that  hummocky  part 
of  his  anatomy  and  swung  it  round  at  you  and 
rested  his  hands  clasped  across  it  as  he  talked. 
"Jis*  thought  I'd  happen  along!  Wife  didn't 
want  me  to:  women  are  all  skeery  that  way;  but 
I  jis'  thought  I'd  happen  along  an'  nut  let  her 
know!" 


374  FREEBOOTERS  OP  THE  WILDERNESS 

"All  sorts  o'  things  might  chance  in  a  mine, 
mightn't  they?"  cut  in  Matthews  with  a  twinkle 
of  his  eye  more  merry  than  good  natured. 

The  Sheriff  smiled  a  sickly  smile  and  '  'lowed 
they  could ' ;  and  everybody  walked  into  the  lowest 
tunnel  leaving  the  fire  guard  lanterns  outside; 
for  this  tunnel  was  lighted  by  electricity.  As 
they  all  walked  in,  the  Sheriff  was  to  the  rear. 

"Here,  you,  Mr.  Sheriff,"  Matthews  blurted 
out,  going  to  the  rear  of  the  procession,  "seems 
to  me  my  place  is  kind  o '  back  o '  behind  o '  you. ' ' 

The  Sheriff  smiled  a  sickly  smile  and  '  'lowed 
it  waz.' 

Wayland  took  the  record  of  the  mine's  output 
per  day.  (It  averaged  a  net  return  of  forty  per 
cent,  dividend  on  a  capitalization  of  ninety  mil 
lion.)  Then,  he  took  the  record  of  what  the 
Smelter  could  consume  per  day.  The  differ 
ence  must  be  used  for  shipment  or  storage. 
Wayland  did  the  counting  and  measuring.  Mac- 
Donald  jotted  down  the  notes.  The  downy- 
lipped  youth  proceeded  along  the  tunnel  with  an 
air  of  supreme  contempt.  It  was  as  they  were 
about  to  enter  the  second  tunnel  that  his  superi 
ority  expressed  itself.  Matthews  afterwards  said 
it  was  because  the  black  water  drip  or  coal  sweat 
was  seeping  through  the  overalls. 

"I  don't  see  what  we're  delaying  to  take  all 
these  specific  measurements  for  anyway,"  he 
said. 

'  '  Don 't  you  ? "  asked  Wayland.    '  <  Then  I  '11  tell 


WHICH  UNCLE  SAM?  375 

yon!  I  have  the  affidavit  of  the  most  of  the 
*  dummies'  that  the  homestead  entries  were 
fraudulent !  You  could  see  that  if  you  knew  that 
men  can't  farm  at  an  angle  of  ninety!  In  case 
that  fails,  I  want  proof  that  this  coal  is  so  val 
uable  it  is  being  shipped  out.  I  want  exact  proofs 
of  the  exact  profits  being  made  on  the  fraudu 
lently  acquired  mines." 

"What's  your  idea?  Shut  'em  up  from  de 
velopment  for  .ever?"  asked  Brydges  belliger 
ently. 

"Brydges,"  said  Wayland,  "when  you  find  you 
can't  throw  your  pursuer  off  the  trail  by  the 
skunk's  peculiar  trick  of  defence,  I'd  advise  you 
to  try  kicking  sand  in  the  public's  eyes  and  draw 
ing  a  rotten  herring  across  the  trail !  This  time, 
I  think  you'll  find,  the  public  won't  go  off  the 
trail  after  the  rotten  herring.  They'll  keep  on 
after  the  thief." 

It  was  at  that  stage,  Bat  fell  back  abreast  of 
the  Sheriff,  and  Matthews  behind  heard  one  of 
the  two  say,  "Damn  him,  then,  let  him  go  on  and 
examine  his  bellyfull!  It's  his  funeral;  not 
ours!" 

Wayland  not  only  examined  the  second  tunnel 
above  the  first,  but  he  insisted  on  descending  a 
shaft  that  had  been  sunk  almost  vertically  from 
the  crest  of  Coal  Hill  to  get  a  measurement  of 
the  veins,  for  stoping,  or  cross  cutting,  or  drift 
ing  or  some  such  technical  work,  I  forget  what; 
but  the  vertical  shaft  afforded  estimates  of  the 


376  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

depth  of  the  veins.  Because  it  was  not  a  regular 
avenue  of  work  but  only  of  examination,  it  had 
not  been  equipped  with  steam  hoist  and  electric 
light,  but  was  furnished  only  with  such  old  fash 
ioned  hand  winch  as  the  stage  driver  had  de 
scribed  to  Eleanor.  A  huge  bucket  depended  by 
cable  from  the  hand  hoist.  It  was  as  they  were 
all  lighting  lanterns  and  stepping  in,  that  Mac- 
Donald  took  a  look  at  the  hoist  and  noticed  that 
the  Sheriff  was  to  give  a  hand  at  the  winch. 

"  Not  coming  Brydges!"  asked  Matthews,  who 
was  already  in  the  bucket. 

"Oh,  I  guess  I'm  a  pretty  heavy  man  to  go 
in  that." 

"Then,  A  guess  you're  afraid  of  what's  goin' 
t'  happen!  We're  not  goin'  down,  without  you, 
m'  boy." 

Bat  winked  at  the  Sheriff  and  clambered  in.  It 
was  then  something  on  the  edge  of  the  Brule 
arrested  MacDonald's  glance;  Calamity  coming 
through  the  cottonwoods  mad  and  dishevelled, 
O'Finnigan  reeling  up  from  the  Smelter  City 
trail  mad  with  whiskey,  waving  a  bottle  and  shout 
ing — "What's  th'  use  o'  anything?  Nothing! 
I  'm  Uncle  Sam !  Hoorah  I ' ' 

"Go  on,"  ordered  MacDonald  curtly.  "I'll 
keep  the  notes  safe  up  here,  in  my  pocket,  Way- 
land!  I'll  stay  and  give  Sheriff  Flood  a  hand 
at  the  hoist!" 

The  Sheriff  looked  for  directions  to  Brydges. 

"Let  her  go,"  ordered  Brydges  with  a  glance 


WHICH  UNCLE  SAM?  377 

back  over  his  shoulder  towards  the  trail  from 
Smelter  City ;  and  the  winch  creaked  and  groaned ; 
and  the  bucket  fell  with  a  bump;  then  a  steady 
drop  to  the  first  vein.  When  Matthews  looked  up, 
the  slant  of  the  shaft  had  cut  off  the  sky. 
Brydges  didn't  bother  clambering  out  of  the 
bucket.  He  was  silent  and  kept  hold  of  the  de 
pendent  cable.  Suddenly,  there  was  a  rumble  as 
of  the  hoist  flying  backward,  then  the  whip  lash 
of  a  taut  rope  snapping,  and  the  cable  whirled 
down  in  a  coil  round  Brydges'  head. 

"Gee  whiz!  This  is  a  pretty  mess!  The  ca 
ble's  broke;  and  we  can't  get  up!" 

"What's  that?"  called  Mathews.  Wayland 
and  the  others  were  examining  the  black  wall  of 
the  shaft. 

Matthews  flashed  his  hand  lantern  in  Brydges' 
face.  It  was  ashen  doughy,  with  sagged  lips. 

"Wayland,  have  y'  on  y'r  mountaineerin'  boots, 
the  boots  pegged  wi'  handspikes!"  cried  the  old 
frontiersman.  "The  cable's  broken;  and  A  like 
t'  see  y'  shin  for  th'  top  soon  as  possible!" 

Something  in  the  voice  must  have  caught  the 
ear  of  the  news  editor;  for  he  turned  back  and 
flooded  his  lantern,  first  on  Matthews'  face,  then 
on  Brydges'. 

"You'll  climb  easier  if  you  pull  off  y'r  over 
alls  and  fasten  y'r  lantern  in  y'r  hat,  Wayland," 
he  said  in  the  same  cutting  voice  he  used  in  the 
hurry  and  rush  of  the  composing  room. 

If  Mr.  Bat  Brydges  had  been  after  a  feature 


378  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

story,  he  had  it  then  and  there;  the  tenebrous 
thick  coal  darkness ;  the  drip-drip-drip  of  the  wa 
ter-soak  through  the  rock  walls;  Matthews'  eyes 
blazing  like  coals  of  fire  in  the  dark,  his  lantern 
shining  full  on  Brydges ;  the  news  editor  hatchet- 
faced,  white  of  skin,  with  pistol  point  eyes,  his 
lantern  full  on  Brydges ;  the  downy-lipped  youth 
white,  terrified,  chattering  of  jaws,  unable  to 
speak  a  word,  clutching  to  the  edge  of  the  bucket 
to  hide  his  trembling,  his  hat  had  fallen  off,  his 
lantern  had  fallen  out  of  his  hand,  and  a  great 
blob  of  black  coal  drip  trickled  from  his  yellow 
hair  down  his  cheek  in  front  of  his  ear;  and  the 
handy  man  still  standing  in  the  barrel,  his  face 
chalky  and  soggy  like  dough,  with  a  show  of 
bluff,  but  unable  to  look  a  man  in  the  face,  gaz 
ing  at  his  feet  in  the  bottom  of  the  barrel : 

"Gawd,  Wayland!  Don't  risk  it!  Don't 
climb!  Wait  a  little!  They'll  wind  her  up  and 
drop  another  rope  down  to  us  and — " 

The  Eanger  had  begun  climbing.  They  could 
see  the  shine  of  the  lantern  in  his  hat  against  the 
black  moist  rock  wall;  up  and  up,  slow,  sure 
and  light  of  foot,  swinging  from  side  to  side  for 
hand  grip;  hands  first  finding  foot  hold;  then 
a  leg  up;  and  another  foot  hold. 

" Look  out  fellows,"  he  warned  once.  "I 
might  knock  some  of  these  small  rocks  loose ! ' ' 

Then,  the  light  of  the  lantern  disappeared  at 
a  bend  in  the  shaft. 


WHICH  UNCLE  SAM?  379 

"It's  a  darned  dangerous  thing  to  do,"  pro 
nounced  the  handy  man  thickly. 

Not  one  of  the  men  answered  a  word,  and  the 
silence  grew  impressive  by  what  it  didn't  say. 

Once  Wayland  had  turned  the  bend  of  the  shaft, 
the  rest  of  the  way  up  was  easy.  Daylight  was 
above,  and  the  climb  was  a  gradual  slant  over 
uneven  ridged  rock ;  and  with  the  grip  of  the  pegs 
in  his  mountaineering  boots,  he  ascended  almost 
at  a  run  on  all  fours. 

"Hullo  up-there,"  he  called,  "what's  wrong?" 

There  was  no  answer.  He  ascended  the  rest 
of  the  way  winged  and  came  out  hoisting  himself 
from  his  elbows  to  his  knees  with  a  deep  breath 
of  pure  air  above  the  surface.  At  first,  daylight 
blinded  him.  He  threw  the  lantern  from  his  hat 
and  blinked  the  darkness  out  of  his  eyes. 

"It's  all  right  fellows,"  he  roared  down  the 
shaft,  funnelling  his  hands. 

Then  he  looked. 

Sheriff  Flood  was  not  to  be  seen.  Neither  was 
MacDonald.  There  seemed  to  be  no  one.  The 
day  shift  were  going  back  in  the  tunnels  below. 
The  windlass  handle  hung  prone  as  a  disused 
well.  It  had  not  flown  back  broken.  The  cable 
had  been  cut.  Then,  he  heard  a  groan.  It  was 
Calamity  lying  on  her  face  at  the  foot  of  the 
windlass,  weeping  and  reaving  her  hair. 
Stretched  on  the  grass  a  few  paces  back  from  the 


380  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

windlass  with  two  bloody  bullet  holes  full  in  the 
soft  of  the  temple,  lay  MacDonald,  the  sheep 
rancher,  beyond  recall. 

Wayland  stooped  and  felt  for  the  heart. 

It  was  motionless.  The  body  was  chilling  and 
stiffening.  He  looked  back  at  the  face.  There 
was  almost  a  smile  on  the  lips;  and  one  hand 
hung  as  if  fallen  from  the  windlass  handle.  A 
suspicion  flashed  through  Wayland 's  mind.  He 
could  hardly  give  it  credence.  It  was  preposter 
ous,  unbelievable,  like  a  page  from  the  lawless 
ness  of  the  frontier  a  hundred  years  ago!  Yet 
hadn't  this  thing  happened  in  California,  and 
happened  in  Alaska!  They  would  never  dare  to 
murder  a  man  conducting  an  investigation  or 
dered  by  the  great  Government  of  the  greatest 
Nation  on  earth!  Yet  had  they  not  tried  to  as 
sassinate  representatives  of  the  great  Federal 
Government  down  in  San  Francisco,  and  shot  to 
death  in  Colorado  a  federal  officer  sent  straight 
from  Washington?  And  these  murders  had  not 
been  committed  by  the  rabble,  by  the  demagogues, 
by  the  anarchists.  They  had  been  pre-planned 
and  carried  out  by  the  vested-righter,  in  de 
fiance  of  law,  in  defiance  of  the  strongest  Gov 
ernment  on  earth  and  up  to  the  present,  in  de 
fiance  of  retribution. 

Wayland  tore  open  the  coat  and  felt  for  the 
notes.  They  were  gone.  He  looked  at  Calamity. 
A  darker  suspicion  came.  Then,  he  caught  the 


WHICH  UNCLE  SAM?  381 

Cree  woman  by  the  shoulder  and  threw  her  to  her 
feet. 

"Calamity  who  did  this!" 

"Th'  trunk  man,  O'Finnigan!  Flood,  he  lead 
heem  up;  an'  t'  trunk  man  shoot,  shoot  quick 
close — lak  dat,"  she  said  snapping  her  fingers 
round  behind  Wayland's  ear  against  the  soft  of 
his  temple. 

Wayland's  suspicions  became  a  certainty. 

"They  will  blame  you,"  he  said,  "do  you  un 
derstand  me?  They  will  prove  you  did  it;  and 
hang  you!  Kide  for  your  life!  Eide  for  Can 
ada;  and  hide!" 

Was  he  thinking  of  Calamity  or  Eleanor? 
But  where  was  Flood ;  and  where  was  the  drunken 
man? 

He  fastened  a  stone  to  the  end  of  the  cut  cable, 
and  with  a  shout  began  dropping  it  down  and 
down  from  the  windlass. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE   AWAKENING 

By  all  the  tricks  of  stage-craft  and  book-craft, 
of  the  copybook  headlines  and  platitudinous  lies 
which  we  have  had  rammed  down  our  throats 
since  childhood,  virtue  should  have  triumphed 
in  the  person  of  the  Ranger,  because  he  fought 
regardless  of  consequences  for  right.  MacDon- 
ald,  the  sheep  rancher,  who  went  out  of  his  way 
to  enforce  the  fair  deal  and  the  square  deal,  when 
he  could  very  much  more  easily  have  remained 
safely  at  home,  a  fire-insurance,  bread-and-butter, 
safety-guarantee  Christian  of  the  quiescent  kind, 
MacDonald  by  all  the  tricks  of  the-be-good-and- 
you-will-prosper  doctrines,  ought  not  to  have  been 
shot  down  as  he  stood  guard  at  the  head  of  the 
mine  shaft. 

A  very  great  many  years  ago,  a  very  great 
Man,  in  fact,  the  very  greatest  moral  teacher  the 
world  has  ever  known,  declared  that  the  milk- 
and-water,  neither-hot-nor-cold,  quiescent,  safety- 
guarantee  type  of  Christianity  was  a  thing  to  be 
spewed  out  of  the  mouth;  but  that  was  a  very 
great  many  years  ago.  Time  has  softened  the 
edge  of  that  passion  for  right.  Perhaps,  He 

382 


THE  AWAKENING  383 

didn't  mean  it!  Perhaps,  we  have  permitted 
sentimentality  to  sand-paper  down  the  fighting 
edge  of  militant  righteousness  that  goes  out  be 
yond  the  Safety  Line!  To  be  sure,  bread-and- 
butter  goodness  is  an  easier  matter  than  risking 
hot  shot  beyond  the  Safety  Line;  and  perhaps, 
a  sentimental  Deity  may  be  persuaded  to  allow 
us  a  little  jam  on  our  bread  and  butter  if  we 
sit  tight  on  the  safe  side  with  a  fire-insurance 
policy  in  the  shape  of  a  creed!  Personally,  I 
wonder  when  we  all  take  to  joining  "the  sit-tight, 
safety-guarantee  brigade,  who  is  to  stand  on  the 
outside  guard?  Or  is  there  any  modern  Fighting 
Line?  Or  does  the  Fighting  Line  belong  to  the 
old  Shibboleth  legends  of  Canaanite  and  Jebusite 
and  Perizzite  and  God  knows  what  other  "ite"? 
I  hear  these  ancient  gentry  preached  about  and 
the  heroes  who  smote  them  hip  and  thigh  ex 
tolled.  Personally,  I  am  a  great  deal  more  in 
terested  in  the  modern  tussle  for  a  promised  land 
than  in  those  old  time  frays  for  a  fertile  patch  in 
a  sterile  wilderness;  and  I  see  the  same  call  for 
the  hero's  fighting  edge;  and  I  like  the  Mac- 
Donalds,  who  jump  out  from  behind  the  Safety 
Line  to  fight  for  right,  though  it  bring  but  the 
bloody  bullet  holes  in  the  soft  of  the  temple ;  and 
I  like  the  Waylands,  who  take  up  the  game  trail 
to  run  down  crime  though  it  bring  the  sword  of 
dismissal  dangling  over  their  own  heads;  and  I 
like  best  of  all  the  Matthews,  who  throw  aside 
their  ' '  skin-dicate  contracts ' 9  to  take  up  the  game 


384  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

of  playing  as  joyfully  for  right  as  they  have  for 
wrong,  "rich"  (I  wish  you  could  have  heard  the 
full  way  in  which  he  said  that  word)  "rich"  on 
"thirty  dollars  a  year  for  clothes,"  spending  self 
without  stint,  joyfully,  unknowing  of  self-pity, 
for  the  making  of  right  into  might,  for  the  mak 
ing  of  a  patch  of  human  weeds  into  a  garden  of 
goodness.  Only,  I  would  put  on  record  the  Tact 
that  each  man's  reward  was  not  the  hero's  crown 
of  laurel  leaves,  but  the  crown  that  their  great 
prototype  wore  upon  the  Cross. 

Eleanor  could  not  understand  why  she  had 
been  formally  notified  to  attend  the  coroner's  in 
quest  till  the  drift  of  the  questions  began  to  in 
dicate  that  this  investigation  like  many  another 
was  not  an  investigation  to  find  out  but  an  in 
vestigation  to  hush  up,  not  a  following  of  the  clues 
of  evidence  but  a  deliberate  attempt  to  throw 
pursuit  off  on  false  clues.  In  fact,  there  were 
many  things  about  that  inquest  which  Eleanor 
could  not  fathom.  Why,  for  instance  was  the 
local  district  attorney  not  present?  Why  had  the 
Smelter  Coking  Company  a  special  pleader  pres 
ent?  Why  was  the  great  Federal  Government 
not  represented  by  an  attorney  of  equal  ability, 
instead  of  this  downy-lipped  silent  and  incred 
ibly  ignorant  youth?  Why  was  the  first  session 
of  the  inquest  adjourned  till  the  burial  of  her 
father?  Why  did  the  sheriff  act  as  a  mentor 
at  the  ear  of  the  chief  coroner?  Why  did  the 


THE  AWAKENING  385 

justice  of  the  peace  acting  as  coroner  listen  to 
all  suggestions  from  the  Smelter  Company's  at 
torney  and  the  Sheriff,  and  reject  all  suggestions 
from  her  father's  friends?  Why  was  the  ste 
nographer  instructed  to  erase  some  evidence  and 
preserve  other?  What  was  the  ground  of 
discrimination?  If  you  doubt  whether  these 
things  are  ever  done,  dear  reader;  then,  peruse 
with  close  scrutiny  the  first  criminal  trial  that 
comes  under  your  notice;  and  see  if  you  think 
that  the  term  of  the  Old  Dispensation  '  wresting 
the  judgment'  has  become  obsolete?  You  don't 
^suppose  those  long-whiskered  old  patriarchs 
openly  took  the  bribe  in  hand  and  right  before 
the  claimants,  tucked  the  loose  shekels  into  the 
wide  phalacteries  of  holy  skirts — do  you? 

Yet,  there  were  certain  features  of  that  inquest 
which  awakened  strange  hope  in  her  breast.  It 
was  held  in  the  county  court  room ;  and  the  crowd 
gathering  to  listen  and  hear  somehow  gave  her  a 
different  impression  from  the  unwashed  rabble 
that  usually  infests  public  courts  to  feast  on  the 
carrion  of  criminal  proceedings.  Men  predom 
inated,  of  course ;  but  they  were  decent  men,  men 
of  standing,  not  idlers  and  blacklegs.  As  she 
passed  up  the  aisle  with  Matthews  and  Mrs.  Wil 
liams  to  the  front  row  of  chairs  where  the  news 
editor  and  Wayland  and  Brydges  and  the  youth 
from  Washington  were  already  seated,  she  heard 
a  man's  voice  say,  "They've  gone  too  far  this 


986  FREEBOOTERS  OP  THE  WILDERNESS 

time,  by  Jingo!  It  will  take  more  than  wind- 
jamming  to  win  next  fall's  elections  with  this 
against  them." 

"You  bet  there's  an  awakening,"  returned 
another  voice.  " The-dyed-in-the-woollies  don't 
realize  yet ;  but  they  will  waken  up  after  election 
day!"  * 

The  news  editor  had  only  finished  giving  evi 
dence;  on  the  whole  immaterial  testimony;  for 
suspicions  do  not  pass  with  juries  and  coroners. 

"How  was  it  you  attended  the  examination  of 
this  mine?"  was  the  last  question  asked  him. 

Considering  the  Smelter  City  lots,  for  which 
the  news  editor  had  yet  to  pay  and  the  '  *  kiddies ' ' 
which  he  had  to  support,  it  would  have  been  an 
easy  matter  for  him  'to  slink'  that  question. 
"A  newspaper  man's  pursuit  of  a  good  story" 
would  have  been  answer  enough  to  satisfy  any 
coroner;  but  the  news  editor  did  not  give  that 
answer.  He  took  off  his  glasses  and  polished  the 
lenses  with  his  handkerchief.  Then,  he  put  them 
back  on  his  nose  and  looked  straight  at  the  gen 
tleman  presiding. 

"May  I  answer  that  question  in  my  own  way, 
taking  plenty  of  time?"  he  asked.  "I  take  it  this 
inquest  is  being  held  to  get  at  the  real  truth.'' 

The  coroner  said,  "Go  ahead!" 

The  attorney  for  the  Smelter  City  Coking  Com 
pany  sat  up  and  whispered  something  to  Brydges. 
The  handy  man  turned  lazily  round.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  "one  of  our  staff." 


THE  AWAKENING  387 

The  news  editor  cleared  his  throat,  and  a  little 
sharp  intersection  of  lines  bridged  above  his  nose. 

"For  some  little  time,  it  has  been  known  in  the 
Valley  that  a  quiet  contest  has  been  going  on." 

The  attorney  for  the  Smelter  City  Coking  Com 
pany  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"The  witness  should  keep  to  a  strict  recital  of 
fact,  not  rumors,"  he  interjected;  and  the  downy- 
lipped  representative  of  the  Federal  Govern 
ment  said  nothing  about  the  privileges  of  a  wit 
ness,  or  the  impropriety  of  a  special  pleader  open 
ing  his  mouth  at  an  inquest. 

"Confine  yourself  to  facts,"  ordered  the  cor 
oner  heavily. 

Wayland  and  Eleanor  suddenly  leaned  forward. 
The  news  editor  rubbed  his  glasses  and  resumed 
in  a  low  clear  tense  voice.  How  many  of  the 
listeners  had  the  faintest  idea  of  what  the  re 
cital  cost  him? 

"I  take  it  the  object  of  this  inquest  is  to  ascer 
tain  facts.  If  I  am  to  relate  facts,  I  must  repeat 
that  for  some  little  time  it  has  been  known  in  the 
Valley  that  a  quiet  contest  has  been  going  on  be 
tween  the  people  and  certain  interests  which  I 
do  not  need  to  name.  It  was  well  known  in  our 
office  that  the  miners  on  Coal  Hill  had  openly 
boasted  no  Washington  man  was  going  to  get 
away  with  any  facts  about  mining  operations. 
O'Finnigan  of  Shanty  Town  had  boasted  he  had 
been  brought  down  from  the  Ridge  for  "a  sur 
prise  party"  as  he  called  it.  For  some  little  time, 


388     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

as  news  editor  I  had  been  dissatisfied  with  the 
reports  of  this  whole  struggle:  they  struck  me 
as  exceedingly  biased  and  untruthful ;  in  fact  what 
the  reporters  call  ' doped  news';  'news  doped  by 
outsiders  for  special  reasons  of  their  own.'  " 

Bat's  boot  came  down  with  a  clump  on  the 
floor.  The  attorney  was  up  again,  glaring  at  the 
coroner.  The  news  editor  cleared  his  throat. 

"So  I  determined  to  go  and  see  this  thing  for 
myself—" 

1  '  With  the  result,"  roared  the  attorney,  "that 
you  saw  every  facility  afforded  for  the  most 
thorough  examination  of  the  mine." 

There  was  a  shuffling  of  feet  among  the  men  at 
the  back  of  the  room.  More  men  seemed  to  be 
crowding  in. 

"That,"  said  the  news  editor  aloud,  sitting 
back  beside  Wayland,  "That  effectually  cooks  my 
dough!  See  that  you  fellows  do  as  well!" 

Eleanor  was  next  questioned,  most  consider 
ately  and  courteously.  Twice  she  was  inter 
rupted.  The  first  time  was  when  she  repeated 
that  her  father  had  said  he  expected  no  trouble 
whatsoever. 

"I  would  call  your  attention  to  the  fact,  Mr. 
Coroner,  that  the  deceased  gentleman  assured  his 
daughter  he  expected  no  trouble  whatsoever," 
called  out  the  attorney. 

The  Sheriff  leaned  over  and  whispered  to  the 
coroner. 

"Did  the  half -breed  woman  known  as  Calamity 


THE  AWAKENING  389 

leave  the  Banch  House  the  night  before  the  ex 
amination  of  the  mine?"  asked  the  coroner. 

It  was  when  Eleanor  was  describing  the  mad 
look  of  Calamity  that  the  attorney  again  inter 
rupted  : 

"Mr.  Coroner,  out  of  respect  to  the  memory  of 
the  deceased  gentleman  and  to  the  member  of  his 
family  present,  I  ask  that  the  stenographer  strike 
out  the  record  of  the  insane  woman's  babblings! 
The  fact  is  established  on  the  word  of  Miss  Mac- 
Donald  that  the  Indian  woman  set  out  with  the 
express  intention  of  seeking  her  employer.  What 
she  intended  to  do  when  she  found  him,  we  cannot 
know;  for  the  woman  was  plainly  insane  and  her 
word  is  worthless." 

Bat  wore  a  tallow  smile.  The  attorney's  ex 
pression  became  inscrutable.  Sheriff  Flood's 
face  shone  as  a  new  moon.  The  other  faces  were 
a  puzzled  blank. 

' '  You  want  to  check  that, ' '  whispered  the  news 
editor  to  Wayland.  Matthews  was  being  ques 
tioned. 

"Before  A  proceed  t'  answer  y'r  verra  civil 
inquiries,  Mr.  Coroner,  A  wud  ask  the  privilege 
o'  put  tin'  three  questions!" 

"Go  ahead,  Sir!" 

"Why  is  the  man  O'Finnigan  not  here?" 

"Still  drunk,"  answered  the  Sheriff. 

"Then,  if  A  commit  a  crime,  if  A  cut  y'r 
throat,  Mr.  Coroner,  all  A  have  t'  do  t'  avoid 
awkward  questions,  is  t'  fill  up?  Verra  well! 


390  FREEBOOTERS  OP  THE  WILDERNESS 

Why  is  the  woman  Calamity,  herself,  not  here?" 

"Can't  be  found,"  called  Wayland. 

"So  that  if  A'm  accused  of  a  crime  A  know 
no  more  about  than  th>  babe  unborn,  all  A've  t' 
do  t'  rivet  that  crime  on  myself  for  life  is  not  to 
be  found?  Verra  well — " 

"Sir,"  interrupted  the  coroner. 

"A  wud  ask  why  is  that  little  Irish  lassie  not 
here!" 

Mrs.  Williams  explained  that  Lizzie,  having 
exhausted  the  Indian  children  with  her  boastings 
in  two  days,  had  lost  interest  in  life  and  run  back 
to  the  slums. 

"A  always  did  say  if  y'  took  a  pig  out  o' 
a  pen  an'  putt  it  in  a  parlor,  'twould  feel  lone 
some  for  its  hogwash,"  exclaimed  the  old  front 
iersman  running  a  puzzled  hand  through  his  mop 
of  white  hair.  Matthews  also  was  twice  inter 
rupted  in  his  testimony.  He  was  explaining  that 
he  anticipated  trouble  about  the  mine  from  what 
had  already  happened  on  the  Eim  Eocks  when 
Wayland  trod  forcibly  and  sharply  on  his  foot; 
and  all  reference  to  the  pursuit  across  the  Desert 
was  omitted.  The  coroner,  it  seemed,  did  not 
want  any  details  about  the  Eim  Eocks.  The  sec 
ond  interruption  came  when  he  began  to  quote 
Mistress  Lizzie  O'Finnigan's  words  those  after 
noons  on  the  Eidge.  The  attorney  sprang  up : 

"As  the  child  is  an  incorrigible  liar  and  her 
father  an  incorrigible  drunkard,  Mr.  Coroner,  I 
think  it  only  fair  to  the  Company  that  their  as- 


THE  AWAKENING  391 

persions  and  reference  to  us  be  stricken  off  the 
records ;"  and  the  coroner  instructed  the  stenog 
rapher  to  erase  all  reference  to  Lizzie's  bab 
bling. 

The  old  frontiersman  sat  back  with  a  dazed 
feeling  that  while  he  had  expressed  anticipation 
of  trouble  at  the  mine,  he  had  failed  to  give  proof 
or  reason  for  that  anticipation. 

Brydges'  evidence  was  innocuous  to  the  very 
end.  The  Sheriff  had  whispered  something  to  the 
coroner. 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  anyone  in  the  Valley 
might  harbor  a  grudge  against  the  sheep 
rancher  V  asked  the  coroner. 

Brydges  hesitated  as  one  who  could  say  much 
if  he  would.  "Yes,  there  is,"  he  answered  lower 
ing  his  eyes  and  flushing  dully. 

It  was  the  attorney  again  who  was  on  his  feet. 

"Mr.  Coroner,  the  dead  cannot  defend  them 
selves.  Out  of  respect  to  the  deceased  gentleman 
and  the  member  of  his  family  present,  I  think 
that  line  of  enquiry  ought  not  to  be  recorded  or 
pursued." 

"The  second  time  they  have  said  that;  what  do 
they  mean?"  Eleanor  asked  Mrs  Williams  in  a 
whisper. 

Matthews  was  hanging  on  to  his  chair  to  hold 
himself  down  and  the  news  editor  had  leaned 
across  Eleanor  to  speak  to  Wayland:  "Good 
God,  Wayland!  Don't  you  see  the  drift?  Can't 
you  head  that  off?" 


392  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

" Leave  V  me,"  muttered  the  old  frontiersman 
gripping  his  chair. 

"But  you  have  given  your  evidence:  Wayland 
is  our  only  chance  left.  Don't  you  see  how 
they'll  clinch  it?" 

"Hold  y'r  head  shut,"  ordered  Matthews. 

Wayland  was  giving  his  evidence,  as  little  as  he 
could  possibly  give,  it  seemed  to  Eleanor,  from 
the  time  he  had  telephoned  down  to  her  father 
to  come  and  take  corroborative  proof  of  the  value 
of  the  coal  mines. 

"You  did  not  anticipate  any  trouble  about  the 
examination  1 ' ' 

"None  whatever,"  answered  Wayland.  He 
had  described  the  examination  of  the  two  tunnels 
and  the  preparation  to  go  down  the  shaft  when 
the  Sheriff  again  whispered  to  the  coroner. 

"When  MacDonald  seemed  to  change  his  mind 
about  going  down  the  shaft,  was  there  anyone 
visible  except  the  Sheriff?" 

"Not  that  I  saw,"  answered  Wayland;  and  he 
went  on  to  describe  the  cutting  of  the  cable  and 
the  climb  up  the  side  of  the  shaft. 

Eleanor  became  suddenly  conscious  that  tense 
stillness  reigned  in  the  county  court  room.  Some 
man  standing  behind  the  back  benches  shuffled 
his  feet  and  cleared  his  throat  with  an  offensive 
"hem."  The  roomful  of  people  looked  back 
angrily.  The  attorney  had  pencilled  a  line  on  a 
scrap  of  paper  and  shoved  it  across  in  front  of 
the  coroner.  Through  the  open  windows,  Elea- 


THE  AWAKENING  393 

nor  could  see  that  a  great  concourse  of  people 
was  gathering  outside. 

"When  you  found  the  body,  was  anyone  else 
present  at  the  top  of  the  shaft  ?" 

For  the  fraction  of  a  second,  Eleanor  wondered 
if  they  meant  to  cast  suspicion  on  the  Eanger. 

"Yes,"  answered  Wayland,  "the  woman,  Ca 
lamity  was  lying  on  the  ground  sobbing  to  break 
her  heart.  No  one  else  was  visible. ' ' 

"You  say  the  wound  was  such  that  it  could  not 
possibly  have  been  self-inflicted  ?" 

"You  determined  that  for  yourselves,  when  you 
examined  the  body,"  answered  Wayland. 

"Was  the  woman's  position  such  that  she 
might  have  shot  him?" 

"The  shot  was  in  the  right  temple,  close;  close 
enough  to  scorch  the  face!  You  have  the  record 
of  that !  The  woman  was  kneeling  on  the  ground 
a  little  to  the  left  facing  him." 

"Did  she  carry  a  weapon?" 

"She  did  not." 

"How  do  you  know  she  had  not  one  concealed?" 

"Because  I  caught  her  by  the  shoulders  and 
lifted  her  up  and  shook  her  and  said,  *  Calamity, 
who  did  this  V  " 

"What  did  she  answer?" 

The  attorney  was  on  his  feet  with  a  bang  of 
his  fist  on  the  table  that  shut  off  the  answer : 

"Mr.  Coroner,  this  evidence  has  proceeded  far 
enough  to  show  that  the  death  of  the  deceased 
gentleman  had  absolutely  no  connection  whatever 


394  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

with  the  official  examination  of  the  mines.  The 
dead  cannot  defend  themselves.  Out  of  respect 
to  the  deceased  and  the  member  of  his  family — " 

"That,"  interrupted  Matthews,  breaking  from 
his  chair,  "is  the  third  time  th'  insinuation  has 
been  thrown  out  that  MacDonald  had  things  in 
his  life  that  wud  na  bear  tellinM  A  know  his 
life :  A  know  all  his  life :  ask  me ! ' ' 

But  the  attorney  and  the  coroner  were  in  an 
endless  wrangle  as  to  law,  that  was  Hebrew  to 
the  listeners,  and  gave  the  roomful  of  spectators 
ample  time  to  imbibe  the  false  impression  that 
was  meant  to  be  conveyed,  and  to  pass  it  to  the 
prurient  crowd  outside.  After  a  half  hour  of 
reading  from  authorities  to  prove  that  the  an 
swer  was  inadmissible  as  evidence,  and  another 
half  hour  rattling  off  counter  authorities  at  such 
a  rate  the  listeners  could  not  possibly  judge  for 
themselves,  the  coroner  reserved  decision  as  to 
whether  that  answer  could  be  admitted  as  evidence 
or  not,  coming  as  it  did  from  a  person  plainly  of 
unsound  mind. 

"What  next  happened?" 

"I  tied  a  stone  to  the  cut  end  of  the  cable  and 
unrolled  the  rope  on  the  hoist  and  gave  it  a  hard 
enough  pitch  to  send  the  stone  past  the  bend  in 
the  shaft." 

"And  when  you  turned  to  work  the  hoist  and 
bring  up  the  others?" 

"And  when  I  turned  to  work  the  hoist,  the 
Indian  woman  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  The 


THE  AWAKENING  395 

chances  are  she  knew  the  guilty  partie.s  would  try 
to  throw  the  blame — " 

"Mr.  Coroner/'  shouted  the  attorney,  "there 
can  be  no  chances  recorded  as  evidence  where  the 
reputation  of  a  gentleman,  who  cannot  defend 
himself,  is  concerned. " 

"Good  God,"  said  the  news  editor  under  his 
breath. 

"Humph!  A '11  put  a  crimp  in  that!  The 
Sheriff  man  is  to  give  evidence  yet!  Eleanor,  y' 
better  not  wait!  A'm  goin'  t'  do  some  plain 
speakin'  t'  y'  father's  honor,  but  'tis  not  talk  for 
a  woman's  ears!  Y've  heard  y'r  father  de 
famed." 

"Then,  I'll  wait  and  hear  him  cleared,"  she 
whispered  to  Mrs.  Williams.  "Will  you  stay?" 

The  Sheriff  had  gone  round  in  front  of  the 
table,  not  too  near  it  for  obvious  reasons ;  for  the 
time  of  his  revenge  had  come  and  his  rotundity 
protruded  full  blown  and  swelling.  He  told 
how  MacDonald  had  refused  to  go  down  the 
shaft. 

"Do  you  know  any  reason  for  that  sudden 
change  of  mind?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  it's  the  reason  or  not; 
but  somethin'  happened  jes'  as  he  had  his  leg 
up  to  climb  in,  might  a'  made  him  change  his 
mind!  Th'  squaw  come  ridin'  all  bareheaded, 
an'  mad  as  a  hornet  out  o'  th'  cottonwoods 
wavin'  her  hands  roarin'  crazy!  Minit  he  seen 


396  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

her,  he  quit  goin'  down:  said  he'd  give  me  a  hand 
at  the  hoist!  I  seen  what  made  him  change  his 
mind  al'  right!  She  waz  ravin'  mad,  come 
rampin'  out,  then,  she  seen  me,  an'  kin'  o'  hiked 
back  ahint  the  cottonwood;  but  I  seen  her  plain! 
Jes  as  we  commenced  unwindin'  her — " 

"You  mean  the  hoist?" 

"Yes,  jes'  as  we  began  lettin'  her  down,  I  sees 
O'Finnigan  come  up  from  Smelter  City  trail 
roarin'  drunk,  ugly  drunk,  yellin'  'Hell:  he  waz 
Uncle  Sam,'  an'  all  that." 

"If  y'll  not  admit  the  child's  story  of  her 
father,  why  d'  y'  admit  this  man's  story  of  him?" 
demanded  Matthews ;  but  the  coroner  ignored  the 
interruption  and  the  doughty  defender  of  the  law 
continued. 

"I  put  up  with  his  drunken  yellin'  till  I  felt 
the  bucket  bump  the  first  level.  Then  I  sez, 
'Now,  my  gen'leman,  hand  over  that  bottle  o' 
tipperary,  an'  scat  out  o'  this!'  There  it  is," 
the  Sheriff  laid  a  black  square  whiskey  bottle  on 
the  desk.  "He  began  jawin'  an'  cuttin'  up  gin- 
eral.  T'  make  a  long  story  short,  I  took  him 
by  the  scruff  o'  th'  neck  and  helped  him  down 
Smelter  City  trail  an' — an' — an'  I  jugged  him: 
that's  all ;  an'  there  he  is  yet!  When  I  came  back 
up,  this  had  happened. ' ' 

"When  you  arrested  O'Finnigan  for  drunken 
ness,  where  was  the  woman,  Calamity?" 

"Hidin'  back  among  th'  cottonwoods!  She'd 
slid  off  her  horse!  Jes'  as  I  turned  down  the 


THE  AWAKENING  .      397 

trail,  I  looked  back!     She  waz   comin'  peepin' 
out  from  tree  t'  tree!" 

i 'How  was  MacDonald  standing?" 

"He  waz  standin'  with  his  back  V  her,  with 
his  hand  hangin'  kind  o'  loose  from  th'  hoist 
waitin'  for  'em  t'  ring  th'  bell  V  let  her  down 
t'  next  level!" 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Eleanor  had  turned 
very  white.  The  eyes  of  the  news  editor  emitted 
sparks. 

"I  expected  that,"  commented  Wayland. 

"Y'  d',  did  y'?"  rumbled  Matthews.  "Then 
A '11  wager  y '11  nut  be  expectin'  what  A '11  spring !" 

The  room  suddenly  filled  with  a  rustling  and 
whispering.  Men  were  demonstrating  exactly 
how  it  had  happened.  The  handy  man's  tallow 
smile  melted  on  his  face;  and  the  tortoise  shell 
eyes  looked  sidewise  at  Wayland.  The  look 
wasn't  malicious;  and  it  wasn't  triumphant. 
It  was  the  look  of  a  gambler  saying,  "Come  on 
my  four-flusher,  beat  that!  Show  down!"  The 
rabble  outside  deployed  off  the  pavement  across 
the  street  back  a  whole  block.  Eleanor  could 
hear  the  hum  through  the  open  window. 

The  attorney  was  leaning  across  the  table  con 
ferring  with  the  coroner. 

The  coroner  rapped  the  table  and  cried  for 
"order." 

The  room  suddenly  silenced. 

"Gentlemen,  as  this  evidence  will  have  to  be 
handed  in  to  the  district  attorney  for  what  action 


398  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

he  deems  best,  I  wish  to  ask  one  more  question. 
Mr.  Sheriff,  you  know  this  Valley  and  the  people 
in  it  well?" 

"I  do,  known  it  for  twenty  years." 

"Do  you  know  of  any  reason  why  this  woman 
Calamity  would  have  shot  or  wished  to  shoot,  her 
employer,  MacDonald?" 

The  Sheriff  changed  a  quid  of  tobacco  from 
one  cheek  to  the  other. 

Eleanor  leaned  forward  looking  straight  in  his 
eyes.  Bat  was  eyeing  Eleanor  quizzically. 
(Had  he  constructed  the  evidence  so  skilfully  that 
he  had  come  to  believe  it  himself?)  Matthews 
was  almost  tearing  the  arms  out  of  the  chair 
where  he  sat. 

"Well,"  said  Sheriff  Flood  clasping  his  hands 
in  rest  across  his  portly  person.  "I  guess  squaw 
is  same  as  any  other  woman  in  one  respect.  I 
guess  she  had  same  reason  for  shootin'  Mac- 
DonaP  as  any  other  woman  in  her  place  would 
o'  had,"  and  he  looked  up  well  pleased  with  him 
self  at  the  roomful.  For  a  moment,  there  was 
deadly  heavy  silence;  then  the  hum  of  the  crowd 
on  the  steps  pouring  the  word  out  to  those  in  the 
street. 

"Ye  lyin'  scut1 !  Ye  filthy  cess  pool  o'  dirt  an' 
falsehood!" 

1 1  can  find  no  authority  for  the  old  frontiersman's  use  of 
the  word  but  in  a  certain  Elizabethan  dramatist;  and  as  he 
uses  the  word  "scut"  for  the  bobtail  of  a  fleeing  rabbit  or  sheep, 
perhaps  the  meanings  of  the  word  as  used  are  identical. — Author. 


THE  AWAKENING  399 

The  old  frontiersman  had  sprung  from  his 
place  and  smashed  his  chair  in  twenty  atoms  on 
the  table  between  the  sheriff  and  the  coroner. 

"Y'll  not  offend  the  deceased  gentleman's 
memory?  Y'll  not  offend  his  daughter  here? 
An'  the  dead  can't  defend  themselves?  An'  y're 
all  s'  verra  delicate  y're  lettin'  a  stinkin'  slander 
ous  unclean  unspoken  damnable  hell-spawned 
lie  go  forth  unchallenged  t'  blacken  a  dead  man's 
memory?  Oh,  A  know  y'r  kind  well!  A've 
heard  harlots  lisp  an'  whisp'  an'  half  tell  and 
damn  by  a  lie  o'  th'  eye!  Y'  are  insinuatin' 
this  woman  Calamity  shot  her  master  to  avenge 
dishonor  in  her  early  life?  "Tis  a  lie!  "Tis  a 
most  damnable  black  an'  filthy  lie!  She  wud  a' 
died  for  MacDonald  ten  thousand  times  over  if 
she  could,  because  he  had  long  ago,  before  ever 
he  came  here,  avenged  her  dishonor." 

The  coroner  had  sprung  back  from  the  table. 
The  mighty  man  of  valor,  who  defended  law,  had 
precipitately  put  the  space  of  overturned  benches 
between  himself  and  the  irate  old  frontiersman. 

Matthews  suddenly  swung  to  face  the  spec 
tators. 

"Men,"  he  cried,  "foul  murder  has  been  done; 
and  this  slander  is  t'  fasten  guilt  on  a  poor  in 
nocent  outcast  woman,  t'  send  her  a  scapegoat 
int'  th'  wilderness  bearin'  th'  sins  o'  those  higher 
up  that  A  do  na'  name;  of  y'r  Man  Higher  Up, 
who  is  the  curse  o'  this  land!  'Twas  in  my  boy 
hood  days  on  Saskatchewan!  This  woman,  that 


400     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

y'  have  seen  wander  the  Black  Hills  sinnin'  un 
ashamed,  was  but  a  fair  slip  o'  an  Indian  girl, 
then,  pure  as  y'r  own  girls  in  school!  She  mar 
ried  a  little  Indian  boy,  Wandering  Spirit  o'  the 
Crees  at  Frog  Lake !  The  Indian  Officer  at  Frog 
Lake  was  a  Sioux  half-breed — he  took  her  forc 
ibly  from  Wandering  Spirit  t'  th'  Agency 
House!  'Twas  y'r  sheep  rancher,  MacDonald, 
who  was  fur  trader  then,  went  forcibly  to  th' 
Agency  House,  thrashed  the  Agent,  and  brought 
her  back  to  the  Indian,  Wandering  Spirit!  A 
was  passin'  West  by  dog  train  to  the  Mountains 
when  A  stopped  at  the  Agency  House!  Mac- 
Donald  had  gone  North.  Little  Wandering  Spirit 
comes  and  asks  me  t'  interpret  something  he  has 
to  say  t'  th'  Master — meanin'  that  danged  un 
clean  Sioux  beast.  Says  I,  '  Wandering  Spirit 
has  something  not  pleasant  t'  say  t'  you:  Y' 
better  get  another  interpreter.'  The  officer  says, 
'Spit  it  out!  Y'  can't  phase  me.'  Boys,  A  spit 
it  out.  A  gave  it  to  him  plain !  The  boy  Indian 
stood  in  the  door  o'  th'  Agency  House  holdin'  a 
loaded  dog-train  whip  hidden  behind  his  back. 
He  was  na'  but  half  as  big  as  the  brute  behind 
the  Government  desk!  He  says,  'Tell  the  Mas 
ter  he  must  leave  my  wife  alone!  If  ever  he 
comes  near  m'  tepee  again,  A  do  to  him  like 
that,'  rolling  a  dead  leaf  t'  powder  'tween  his 
hands.  The  officer  lets  out  a  roar  o'  filthy  oaths ! 
I  hear  the  little  Indian  give  a  scream  like  a  hurt 
wild  cat.  'He  calls  me  a  dog — a  son  of  a  dog/ 


THE  AWAKENING  401 

he  screams;  an'  boys,  with  one  leap  he  was  over 
that  counter  with  his  dog  whip;  an'  what  A  did 
t'  y'r  Sheriff  last  week  in  the  Pass  is  nothing 
to  what  that  bit  of  an  Indian  boy  did  t'  yon 
bullying  Agent!  He  thrashed  him,  an'  he 
thrashed  him,  an*  he  chased  him  bellowin'  round 
the  Agency  House  till  the  blackguard's  pants 
were  ribbons  an'  the  blood  stripes  reached  down 
an'  soaked  his  socks.  Boys,  A  went  on  to  th' 
Mountains!  When  A  came  back  next  year  an' 
when  MacDonald  came  back  from  MacKenzie 
Eiver,  we  found  that  Agent  had  had  Little  Wan 
dering  Spirit  arrested  by  the  Mounted  Police  for 
assault  an'  battery,  an'  sentenced  to  a  year  in  th' 
penitentiary !  'Twas  too  late  to  undo  the  wrong ! 
Th'  girl,  th'  woman  y'  know  as  Calamity,  had 
gone  insane  from  abuse!  A  helped  to  pry  her 
dead  child  from  her  arms !  A  helped  the  priest 
t'  bury  it  in  the  snow!  Next  year,  was  the  Re 
bellion  !  Y'r  sheepman  an'  his  wife,  Miss  Eleanor 
here  was  na'  born  then,  had  come  down  from  the 
North.  The  Indians  loved  him.  They'd  never 
touch  Mm;  but  when  the  Rebellion  broke  out,  'twas 
Wandering  Spirit  went  dancing  mad  for  re 
venge  from  one  end  o'  the  Reserve  t'  th'  other! 
When  the  massacre  came,  the  officer  had  tripped 
the  little  Indian  fellow  to  his  face  an'  was  pointin' 
the  old  muzzle  loader  at  the  back  o'  his  head  to 
blow  out  his  brains,  when  along  comes  the  Mac- 
Donald  man  an'  kicks  the  gun  from  the  bully's 
hand!  Little  Wandering  Spirit  up  an'  he  pours 


402  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

that  muzzle  loader  into  the  officer's  face;  an'  he 
borrows  another  gun  an'  empties  that  in  his  face; 
and  he  snatches  a  knife;  an'  what  he  left  o'  that 
brute  y'  could  bury  in  a  coffin  th'  length  o'  y'r 
hand!  'Twas  th'  Indian's  way  o'  vengeance;  but 
blame  fell  on  MacDonald;  an'  when  Wandering 
Spirit  was  hanged  for  the  murder,  MacDonald  fled 
from  Canada;  for  his  sympathies  were  with  the 
Indians,  as  every  right  feelin'  man's  were;1  for 
back  a  generation,  there  was  Indian  blood  on 
the  mother's  side;  but  the  Act  o'  Amnesty  has 
been  passed  this  many  a  year;  an'  A'd  come  to 
take  him  back  to  a  fortune  waitin'  him  in  Scot 
land,  to  an  inheritance  when  this  happened. 

66 Y'  know  how  he  found  her  again,  eatin' 
garbage  in  the  Black  Hills  where  the  miners  had 
cast  her  off;  how  he  gave  her  an  asylum  an'  a 
home;  an'  this  is  the  man  y'r  fulthy  sheriff 
poltroon  coward  says  she'd  shoot!  Men,  men  o' 
th'  Nation,  murder  has  been  done  here:  coward 
assassin  murder  on  an  innocent  man!  The 
notes  on  the  mine  have  been  robbed  from  his 
pocket.  Who  planned  this  murder?  Who  shot 
MacDonald  by  mistake?  Who  planned  th'  Eim 
Kocks  outrage?  Is  it  to  this  y'  have  let  y'r 

1  It  need  scarcely  be  explained  these  are  the  old  frontiersman's 
sentiments,  not  the  writer's;  but  on  investigation  I  found  his 
statement  of  facts  as  to  what  transformed  little  Wandering  Spirit 
into  a  blood-thirsty  monster  was  absolutely  true.  This,  of  course, 
did  not  justify  the  Rebellion,  but  helps  to  explain  it,  to  explain 
why  a  worthless  scamp  like  Kiel  could  rouse  the  peaceful  natives 
to  blood  thirst  and  rapine. — Author. 


THE  AWAKENING  403 

Democracy  come?  Is  this  y'r  self  government 
workin'  worse  outrage  than  the  despotism  o' 
Russia?  We'd  have  hanged  our  kings  in  Scot 
land  for  less  sin!  France  would  a'  tanned  her 
rulers'  hide  into  moccasins  for  less!  What  are 
y'  goin'  to  do  about  it."  His  shout  rang  and 
rang  through  the  court.  "Will  ye  make  of  self- 
government  a  farce,  a  screamin'  shame,  a 
shriekin'  laughter  in  th'  ears  o'  th'  wo  rid? " 

There  were  cries  of  "Sit  down!  Sit  down! 
Shut  up!  Go  on!  Who  is  the  old  tow-head?" 
Then  some  one  cried  out  "Moyese."  Half  the 
spectators  cheered.  Half  hissed.  Then  a  voice 
yelled  "Wayland!  Wayland!"  and  Eleanor  felt 
the  leap  to  her  blood;  for  the  crowd  outside  took 
up  the  cry  "Wayland,  Wayland?  What's  the 
matter  with  Wayland?" 

The  Sheriff  and  Coroner  were  on  the  table 
shouting  for  "order — order"  when  some  wag 
heaved  under  and  upset  table,  sheriff,  coroner 
and  all. 

The  last  Eleanor  saw  before  the  news  editor 
and  Wayland  pushed  Mrs.  Williams  and  herself 
through  a  door  behind  the  coroner's  seat  to  a 
taxicab  that  whirled  them  off  to  the  hotel,  was 
a  wild  sprawling  of  the  Sheriff  coming  down  in 
mid-air.  Bat  Brydges  and  the  downy-lipped 
youth,  chalky  white  as  a  dead  birch  tree,  were 
letting  themselves  hastily  out  through  a  back 
window.  Matthews  was  being  carried  down  the 
aisle  on  the  shoulders  of  a  howling  rabble  of  men 


404  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

and  boys.  His  head  was  bare;  his  coat  was 
almost  torn  from  his  shoulders.  His  face  was 
passionate  with  jubilant  laughter.  "Yell,  boys! 
Yell  for  Wayland,"  he  was  urging.  Could 
Eleanor  have  known  what  happened  at  the  door, 
her  heart  would  have  beat  still  faster.  The  old 
frontiersman  brought  her  word  two  hours  later 
when  he  joined  them  at  the  hotel. 

"They  hauled  me  out  to  th'  steps  o'  th'  court 
house, ".  he  said,  "an'  A  says  'Yell  boys!  Yell, 
Yell  like  Hell  for  Wayland!'  An'  they  set  me 
down  on  th'  steps  an'  began  yellin'  *  Speech! 
Speech!'  A  held  up  m'  two  hands  like  this. 
4 Men,'  says  I,  <y'  ask  for  a  word!  Well,  A '11 
give  it  t'  you.  A '11  give  it  t'  y'  from  the  door 
o'  y'r  own  sacred  court  o'  justice,  which  y'  have 
seen  profaned  this  day  by  injustice,  an'  a  lie, 
an'  a  bribe  into  th'  bedlam  o'  a  mob!  Y'  ask 
for  a  word.  A  will  give  it  y',  Men  o'  the  United 
States  o'  the  World;  Men  o'  Liberty;  Men  o' 
Strength;  the  world  has  its  eye  on  ye!  What 
will  y'  do?  M'  word  is  this  t'  all  time:  M'  word 
is  th'  simple  word  o'  the  old  prophets  that  ye 
conned  by  heart  at  y'r  mother's  knee:  Y'  ha' 
seen  the  author  o'  crime  an'  outrage  an'  mur 
der  tryin'  to  wrest  the  judgment,  t'  pervert  the 
court,  to  slander  the  dead,  t'  send  into  th'  wil 
derness  a  poor  innocent  scapegoat  o'  sin,  to  de 
file  the  vera  presence  o'  death.  An'  ye  ha'  seen 
a  young  man  single-handed  fightin'  for  right, 
to  save  y'r  land  from  the  looters,  an'  y'r  forests 


THE  AWAKENING  405 

from  the  timber  thieves,  an'  y'r  mines  from  the 
coal  pirates!  Y'  ha'  seen  evil  an'  good  an'  the 
fruits  o'  them!  Choose  ye  this  day  which  ye 
will  serve!'  Man  alive,  Wayland,  ye  should  a' 
heard  them!  They  yelled  like  Hell  for  y'! 
They  yelled  till  they  split  the  welkin!  They 
yelled,  Wayland,  till  A  couldna'  keep  th'  tears 
from  m'  eyes;  an'  then,  man  alive,  they  yelled 
more  than  ever !  "Whiles  we  were  yellin'  and  rip-, 
roarin'  outside,  y'r  brave  Sheriff  man,  he  gets 
the  door  shut  an'  locked,  an'  the  windows  down, 
an'  the  shades  all  drawn;  an'  they  brings  in  a 
verdict  o'  'come  to  his  death  by  the  hands  o' 
parties  unknown.'  Oh,  A '11  warrant  'twill  be 
'by  the  hands  o'  parties  unknown.'  They'll 
never  more  try  t'  fasten  that  crime  on  poor  old 
Calamity;  tho'  she's  no  so  old  when  y'  come  t' 
think  o'  it,  except  in  her  bein'  sore  sinned 
against. ' ' 

"I  wonder  if  they'll  try  to  come  down  on  you 
for  the  disorder,"  asked  Wayland. 

The  old  frontiersman  chuckled.  "A  wish  t' 
God  they  would,"  he  said.  "What  A'm  won- 
derin'  is  what  y'  fat  Bat  fellow's  doin'l" 

"Oh,  I  can  tell  you  that,"  answered  the  news 
editor.  "Bat  is  singing  small!  I'll  bet  you  a 
five  there  won't  be  a  line  nor  the  fraction  of 
a  line  of  all  this  in  the  local  papers ;  nor  as  much 
as  a  blank  space  about  it  in  any  other  paper. 
My  God,  if  I  could  only  lay  my  hand  on  a 
moneyed  man  who  would  back  a  paper  thro'  a 


406  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

fight  like  this  and  tell  the  counting  rooms  to  go 
to  the  Devil!  I  know  a  score  of  editors 
would  jump  for  the  job  and  work  their  heads 
off!  You  needn't  think  we  are  specially  keen 
for  eating  dog  on  this  kind  of  a  job!  "Tisn't  the 
men  inside  the  office  bedevil  us:  'tis  y'r  outside 
interest — " 

Eleanor  gave  him  a  quick  queer  look.  She  was 
learning  to  think  fast  and  decide  quickly. 

But  the  news  editor  was  quite  right.  Not  a 
word  of  the  disgraceful  attempt  to  pervert  jus 
tice  appeared  in  either  the  local  or  any  other 
paper.  MacDonald's  death  was  briefly  recorded 
as  accidental  and  the  coroner's  verdict  given  in 
a  four  line  paragraph.  Do  not  ask  me  the  why 
of  this,  dear  reader;  or  I  shall  ask  you  the  why 
of  a  hundred  other  equally  mysterious  silences. 
Don't  forget,  as  Way  land  has  already  informed 
you,  there  are  other  countries  besides  Russia 
where  everything  is  not  given  out  to  the  press. 
And  do  not  curse  the  press!  It  is  not  the  fault 
of  the  press  in  Eussia.  Is  it  here? 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   AWAKENING   CONTINUED 

It  was  all  over,  the  inquest,  the  coroner's  find 
ing,  the  reading  of  the  will,  the  revelation  of 
the  real  errand  on  which  the  old  frontiersman 
had  come  from  Saskatchewan.  The  parting  of 
the  ways  had  come  to  her,  as  it  comes  to  us  all. 
The  death  of  her  father  had  shut  the  door  on 
opportunity  in  the  Valley ;  and  the  little  old  lady, 
waiting  for  Matthews  up  in  Prince  Albert,  Can 
ada,  to  take  her  back  to  the  inheritance  of  her 
father's  family  in  Scotland,  opened  elsewhere 
another  door  of  opportunity.  As  one  door  had 
swung  shut,  another  had  swung  open.  Were 
we  creatures  of  circumstances,  as  the  fatalists 
declared;  or  could  we  master  and  bend  circum 
stances  to  human  will?  Was  her  feeling  of  re 
bellion  but  the  kicking  of  ructions  heels  against 
the  closed  door  of  fate?  Would  time  teach  the 
futility  of  barking  one's  shins  in  such  fashion? 

Eleanor  sat  in  the  parlor  of  the  suite  of  rooms 
reserved  by  the  Williams  and  herself.  The 
Williams  and  Matthews  had  gone  out  for  the 
evening  to  some  women's  club  meeting  on  mis 
sions.  Eleanor's  nerves  were  too  tension-strung 

407 


408  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

for  people  to-night.  They  had  read  her  father's 
will  that  afternoon.  The  quiet  man  doing  the 
duty  next  and  making  no  professions  had  left 
her  secure  against  want;  and  after  the  lawyer 
who  read  the  will  had  gone,  the  Williams  went 
out,  and  Matthews  had  drawn  his  chair  near  to 
hers  and  told  her  the  same  story  of  her  father's 
people  that  he  had  told  Wayland  in  the  Desert. 

"They  were  a'  dark  fearsome  men,"  he  had 
said,  telling  her  of  the  first  Fraser-MacDonald 
who  fought  with  Wolfe  at  Quebec,  and  the  Man 
of  the  Iron  Hand.  "They  were  a'  dark  fear 
some  men;  but  of  stainless  honor,  child!  Not  a 
man  of  them  left  a  bar  sinister  on  th'  scutcheon! 
Even  the  man  who  married  th'  squaw,  had  a 
priest  tie  th'  knot  so  that  children  would  come 
stainless  t'  life;  but  they  were  dark  fearsome 
men,  undyin'  in  their  hates  an7  unhappy  in  their 
loves.  Y'r  own  mother's  people  turned  against 
y'r  father  for  th'  part  he  took  in  th'  Kebellion." 

"Don't  you  think,"  asked  Eleanor,  "it's  time 
one  of  the  race  broke  the  spell  of  unhappy  love?" 

"Aye,  child!  'Tis  why  A'd  take  y'  back  t' 
th'  little  old  lady  waitin'  in  Prince  Albert,  an' 
put  y'  in  y'r  own  place  in  th'  halls  o'  Scotland? 
D'  y'  know  there's  been  none  o'  y'r  race  direct  t' 
occupy  th'  manor  since  th'  first  Frazer  fled  from 
th'  Jacobite  Eebellion  to  French  Canada?  'Twas 
part  o'  his  stubborn  spirit  that  he  fought  for 
the  Nation  that  had  cast  him  out." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  interested  in  the  Jacobites  and 


THE  AWAKENING  CONTINUED  409 

Wolfe  and  things  of  the  past,"  interrupted 
Eleanor.  "I  want  to  live  my  life  full  in  the 
present." 

"Aye;  an'  'tis  because  y're  a  Fraser-Mac- 
Donald  of  the  Lovatt  clan  that  ye  want  t'  live 
a  full  present!  If  you  were  an  upstart  new- 
rich,  my  dear,  y'd  be  sellin'  y'r  soul  t'  th'  Devil 
an'  y'r  body  t'  some  leprous  kite  with  ulcerous 
weddin'  kisses  for  the  privilege  o'  claimin'  this 
inheritance  that's  yours!  There's  a  male  de- 
cendant  o'  some  collateral  line  on  th'  place  ad- 
joinin'  yours.  Man  alive,  he's  had  th'  pick  o' 
every  pork  packer's  an'  brewer's  daughter;  but 
he's  waitin'  th'  little  lady  who's  his  aunt  t'  come 
back  from  Prince  Albert — " 

He  knew  the  minute  he  had  spoken  that  he  had 
struck  a  false  note.  Eleanor  jumped  from  her 
chair. 

"Oh,  bother  the  little  lady  at  Prince  Albert. 
Leave  me,  please!  I  want  to  think — " 

He  withdrew  as  far  as  the  door.  "Would  y' 
like  me  to  see  y'r  lawyer  man  'bout  puttin'  th' 
ranch  lands  o'  th'  Upper  Pass  on  th'  market, 
an'  settlin'  up  th'  estate?" 

"No,"  answered  Eleanor.  "I'm  not  going  to 
sell  any  of  my  father's  estate." 

And  when  Matthews  withdrew  to  join  the 
Williams  at  the  missionary  meeting,  she  burst  into 
tears. 

She  went  across  to  the  window  wondering 
about  Wayland.  She  had  not  seen  him  since 


410  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

early  morning,  before  breakfast,  when  he  called 
at  the  sitting  room  door  to  arrange  their  return 
up  the  Valley  next  day.  The  Williams  and 
Matthews  would  go  up  in  the  buckboard.  Would 
she  ride  back  up  the  hog's  back  trail  with  him? 
He  would  hire  horses  and  riding  togs  now  if 
she  would  say?  Yes,  he  knew  it  would  be  steep 
up  grade;  but  then,  they  could  go  it  slow;  he 
laughed  as  he  said  that.  You  see  the  hog's  back 
trail  was  fifteen  miles  shorter  than  the  Valley 
road  and  they  could  afford  to  go  it  slow;  in  fact, 
very  slow. 

"Come  on  in,"  urged  Eleanor,  throwing  open 
the  parlor  door.  "The  Williams  are  not  up, 
yet!" 

"That's  why  I  came!  No,  I'll  not  come  in: 
not  much!  I'm  keeping  resolutions!" 

She  had  not  understood  the  wistfulness  be 
neath  his  forced  gayety  until  Matthews  told  her 
all  that  afternoon. 

"It  will  be  our  last  ride:  you'll  come,  won't 
you?"  asked  Wayland. 

She  had  promised.  Then,  she  had  spent  a 
most  miserable  morning.  Why  was  it  to  be  the 
last  ride?  She  had  not  cared  to  go  out.  Though 
the  papers  had  suppressed  all  details  of  the 
cowardly  assassination,  the  glare  of  publicity 
had  been  focussed  too  keenly  on  her  for  com 
fort  by  that  explosion  of  the  old  frontiersman 
in  the  court  room.  She  had  remained  in  all 
morning  watching  the  motley  crowds  of  a  fron- 


THE  AWAKENING  CONTINUED  411 

tier  town  surge  past  the  hotel  windows  down 
the  dusty  hot  main  street,  with  its  medley  of  fine 
brick  blocks,  and  poor  shacks,  and  saloons,  and 
false  fronts — little  unpainted  restaurants  and 
cigar  stands  and  gambling  places  of  one-story, 
with  a  false  timber  wall  running  up  a  couple  of 
stories. 

"United  States  of  the  World, "  the  old  fron 
tiersman  had  called  this   country.     Surely  that 
was  the  true  name  of  the  wonderful  new  coun 
try  that  had  defied  all  traditions  and  mingled 
in  her  making  the  races  from  every  corner  of 
the  world!    An  immigrant  train  had  come  in. 
Eleanor  lifted  the  parlor  window,   and  looked, 
and  listened.    Jap   and   Chinese  and  Hindoo — 
strikingly  tall  fellows  with  turbaned  head  gear; 
negro   and   West   Indians   and   Malay;    German 
and  Eussian  and  Poles  and  Assyrians.     In  half 
an  hour,  she  did  not  hear  one  word  of  pure  Eng- 
glish,  or  what  could  be  called  American.     Oh,  it 
was   good   to    be   alive   in   this   wonderful   new 
world    under    these    wonderful    new    conditions 
working  out  the  age-old  problem  of  right  and 
wrong  that  had  defied  solution  since  time  began ! 
She  did  not  mind  the  crudity.    And  if  I  am  to  be 
frank,  she  did  not  mind  the  rudity.     It  was  not 
a  boiled  shirt-front,  kid-glove  world.    In  fact,  at 
that    moment    she    saw    her   hero    stage    driver 
shooting    out    tobacco    squids    at    the    innocent 
granolithic,  which  showed  no  target  because  so 
many  other  contributors  had  preceded  the  stage 


412     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

driver.  In  fact,  it  was  not  a  world  for  a  lady 
with  a  train,  though  Eleanor  saw  some  trollopy 
immigrant  " ladies"  emerging  from  a  big  tent 
on  a  back  lot  decked  with  tawdry  lace  and  sport 
ing  trains  in  inverse  proportions  to  the  suf 
ficiency  of  their  "h's."  Nor  was  it  a  perfumed 
world.  She  could  smell  the  reek  of  the  whiskey 
saloons  all  down  the  street — eleven  of  them, 
there  were  in  a  succession  of  twelve  buildings; 
and  the  twelfth  building,  if  Eleanor  had  known 
it,  was  a  gambling  joint  of  the  Chinese  variety 
that  had  iron  shutters  and  iron  doors  and  signs 
up  for  "Gentlemen  Only."  Let  us  hope,  dear 
reader,  that  "gentlemen  only"  entered  behind 
the  dark  of  those  iron  doors!  She  could  not 
help  wondering  had  the  old  day  passed  forever 
in  the  West.  Was  a  new  day  not  dawning? 
What  was  to  become  of  all  these  incoming  peo 
ple?  Could  the  cattle  barons  and  the  sheep 
kings  and  the  land  rings  fence  them  off  the  vast, 
broad,  idle  acres  forever? 

Yet  this  was  the  world  where  her  father  had 
come  penniless,  a  refugee  from  miscarried  jus 
tice,  and  had  won  out.  It  was  the  world  where 
he  had  been  shot  down  by  some  miserable,  crimi 
nal  assassin,  who,  it  was  more  than  likely,  had 
mistaken  him  for  Wayland.  It  was  Wayland's 
world,  a  world  in  the  making.  Well  had  Mat 
thews  designated  it — The  United  States  of  the 
World!  More  Jews  than  in  Palestine;  more 
Germans  than  in  Berlin;  more  Italians  than  in 


THE  AWAKENING  CONTINUED  413 

Eome;  more  Eussians  than  in  St.  Petersburg; 
more  Canadians  than  in  any  four  Canadian  cities 
combined;  more  descendants  of  the  British  than 
in  the  British  Isles — the  United  States  of  the 
"World  in  the  Making !  Was  it  any  wonder  crime 
was  rampant ;  and  Democracy  rocked  to  the  shock 
of  collision  and  miscalculation  and  inexperience; 
and  Righteousness  became  a  tacking  to  progress, 
not  a  straight  line,  like  the  zig-zag  of  the  ship 
making  headway  all  the  time,  but  tacking  back 
and  forward  to  wind  and  current?  It  was  good 
to  be  alive  and  take  part  in  the  making  of  the 
United  States  of  the  World! 

She  had  had  breakfast  and  luncheon  in  her 
apartments.  At  mid-day,  she  saw  Wayland 
coming  along  the  thronged  main  street.  At 
every  step,  some  man  stopped  him  to  shake 
hands;  and  groups  turned  and  gazed  after  him 
as  he  passed,  and  spat  their  approval  or  disap 
proval  with  great  emphasis  at  the  mottled  pave 
ment.  Below  the  window,  a  big  Swede  grabbed 
his  two  shoulders  with  the  grip  of  a  steam  crane. 

"Say,  you  Vaylan',  huh!"  he  asked.  "Say, 
you  a'  right!  You  ever  need  yob,  Vaylan \  you 
'ply  our  union!  Huh?"  and  he  laughed,  and 
went  on;  and  the  tears  welled  to  Eleanor's  eyes. 

Then  came  the  lawyer  to  read  the  will;  and 
after  the  lawyer's  departure,  Matthews  had  told 
her  how  she  concerned  his  errand  down  from 
the  North;  and  when  the  door  closed  on  Mat 
thews,  she  burst  into  tears. 


414  FREEBOOTERS  OP  THE  WILDERNESS 

She  saw  the  street  lights  come  twinkling  out, 
and  she  did  not  turn  on  the  light  of  the  sitting 
room  chandelier.  Did  he  love  her  at  all;  or  if 
he  did,  did  he  know  what  this  waiting  all  day 
meant  to  a  woman?  Then,  it  came  to  her  in  a 
flash,  his  wistful  look  in  the  morning  behind  the 
forced  gayety,  his  reference  to  the  last  ride,  to 
keeping  resolutions.  Was  that  resolution  for 
the  sake  of  his  work  at  all;  or  for  her?  Of 
course,  Matthews  had  told  him  in  the  Desert; 
and  with  the  thought,  the  weight  that  had  op 
pressed  her  rolled  from  her  heart.  She  jumped 
from  her  chair  and  uttered  a  low  cry  of  happy 
laughter. 

"Oh,  I'll  soon  make  short  work  of  that  resolu 
tion,  ' 9  she  vowed. 

Alas  and  alas !  Samson  straining  his  manhood 
for  strength  to  shore  up  a  resolution,  and  here 
was  a  sharpening  of  scissors  to  shear  him  well! 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door.  She  thought 
it  the  waiter  coming  up  with  a  late  dinner  and 
had  called  "come  in,"  when  the  door  opened,  and 
in  the  glare  of  light  from  the  hall  way  stood  the 
news  editor,  embarrassed  and  hesitating. 

"Please  come  in."  She  pressed  the  electric 
button,  shook  hands  with  him  and  shut  the  door. 

His  air  was  at  once  apologetic  and  glad,  but 
all  the  bitterness  and  anger  seemed  to  have  gone. 
He  stood  holding  his  soft  felt  hat  in  his  hand 
and  looking  through  his  glasses,  very  steadily 
and  kindly,  Eleanor  thought. 


THE  AWAKENING  CONTINUED  415 

1  i Won't  you  sit  down?" 

"We  newspaper  chaps  should  pretty  nearly 
apologize  for  coming  into  your  presence,  Miss  Mac- 
Donald,"  he  began.  "I've  wanted  to  tell  you 
how  we  fellows  all  regret  that.  I  hope  you  know 
that  kind  of  thing  doesn't  come  from  inside  the 
office.  It  comes  from  influences  outside." 

He  had  seated  himself  shading  his  eyes  from 
the  light  with  his  hand,  an  old  trick  of  his  com 
positor  days,  and  still  looked  at  her  in  the  same 
friendly  way. 

"Ever  hear  of  the  Down-East  daily  that  black 
guarded  one  of  our  greatest  presidents  the  very 
day  he  died?  I've  often  wondered  if  the  public 
realized  when  that  item  appeared  that  not  an 
editor  on  the  staff  knew  it  was  coming  out,  that 
when  two  of  the  editors  read  it,  they  cried  and 
went  to  pieces  right  there  and  then  before  their 
men  for  very  shame!  Item  had  been  sent 
straight  to  the  composing  room  just  before  the 
forms  were  locked  up,  by  man  who  owned  the 
paper.  President  had  refused  him  some  public 
concession.  Such  things  sometimes  happen  to 
lesser  folks  than  presidents." 

"Were  you  so  kind  as  to  come  here  to  say  all 
this  to  me?"  asked  Eleanor. 

' '  No,  Miss  MacDonald,  I  wasn  't ! "  He  blushed 
furiously,  like  a  boy  caught  in  the  act  culpable. 
"Fact  is,  I'm  keen  to  see  Wayland,  been  such  a 
crush  of  men  round  him  all  day,  haven't  been 
able  to  get  in  a  word  with  him. ' ' 


416  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

It  was  her  turn  to  blush  furiously. 

"I  didn't  want  him  to  go  off  up  the  Valley  be 
fore  I  could  get  hold  of  him.  I  wanted  to  have 
a  shake  with  him.  We're  in  the  same  boat  now, 
Miss  MacDonald." 

"I  don't  the  very  least  bit  in  the  world  un 
derstand  what  you  are  saying." 

The  news  editor  laughed  and  laid  his  hat  on 
the  onyx  centre  table  beneath  the  electric  lights. 

"Why,  we're  both  fired,"  he  said. 

"Fired?"  repeated  Eleanor. 

This  time  he  laughed  aloud:  "I  don't  mean 
fired  out  of  a  gun,"  he  explained.  "We're  fired 
out  of  our  job.  I  knew  after  the  inquest,  I'd 
get  the  sack,"  he  went  on,  making  light  of  it, 
"but  the  wire  didn't  come  till  this  morning." 

There  were  a  lot  of  things  the  news  editor 
didn't  tell  Eleanor  just  here;  and  I  beg  of  you, 
dear  reader,  to  remember  these  things  when  you 
execrate  the  press;  for  they  happen  every  day 
to  plain  fellows,  some  of  them  profane  fellows, 
who  make  no  professions  and  blow  no  trumpet. 
When  the  news  editor  walked  out  of  the  office 
that  morning,  he  owned,  besides  the  Smelter  City 
lots,  which  were  mortgaged  to  the  hilt,  and  six 
"kiddies,"  who  had  to  be  fed,  precisely  the  five 
dollar  bill  in  his  pocket,  the  clothes  on  his  back 
and  the  duster  coat  that  he  carried  out  on  his 
arm.  It  was  a  mere  detail,  of  course;  but  it  was 
one  of  the  details  he  didn't  tell  Eleanor.  When 
he  had  gone  home  and  told  his  wife,  she  had 


THE  AWAKENING  CONTINUED  417 

asked,  "For  Heaven's  sake,  Joe,  what  ever  will 
we  do,  run  a  fruit  stand;  or  peddle  milk?"  Joe 
had  answered  the  distracted  question  with  a 
lighter  hearted  laugh  than  she  had  heard  for 
many  a  day.  Then  he  had  gone  off  to  catch  Way- 
land. 

But  Eleanor  did  not  know  all  this.  Her  quick 
wit  grasped  one  salient  fact.  You  think,  per 
haps,  it  was  that  Wayland  had  been  dismissed*? 
It  wasn't. 

"You  mean  that  you  have  lost  your  position 
because  of  the  evidence  you  gave  for  us!" 

Then  the  news  editor  did  what  he  always  told 
his  underlings  not  to  do  and  to  do — "Never  lie; 
but  if  you  have  to,  lie  like  a  gentleman." 

"Not  at  all,  Miss  MacDonald!  I  got  fired  be 
cause  I  told  the  truth!  If  I  had  given  evidence 
that  was  simply  in  your  favor,  I'd  deserve  to 
be  fired;  but  it  was  only  a  matter  of  somebody 
letting  in  a  little  honest  daylight.  I  told  Way- 
land  at  the  time  that  I'd  cooked  my  dough! 
Funny  enough,  the  wire  that  came  firing  me  this 
morning  was  immediately  followed  by  a  wire 
from  Washington  announcing  that  he  has  been 
dismissed  for  taking  three  weeks'  absence  with 
out  leave.  We  got  it  in  the  neck  together,  Miss 
MacDonald,  and  I  thought  maybe  Wayland  would 
be  game  enough  to  have  a — a — a  shake  with  me 
over  it." 

"Yes,  a  shake,"  smiled  Eleanor.  "I'd  like  to 
mix  it  for  you!" 


418  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

The  news  editor  suddenly  lost  all  shyness, 
burst  out  laughing,  leaned  forward  and  shook 
hands. 

"Don't  know  whether  you  know  it  or  not," 
he  went  on,  "but  about  a  month  ago  one  of 

those  d 1  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  MacDonald, 

Down-East  scribblerettes,  that  come  out  to  see 
the  West  from  a  Pullman  car  window  and  put 
things  right,  passed  through  here.  Somebody 
got  him  and  filled  him  up  pretty  full  with  a  lot 
of  lies  about  Wayland — " 

"You  mean  Brydges  gave  him  the  facts?" 
asked  Eleanor. 

"Well,  maybe,  Brydges  may  have  had  him  out 
in  the  forty  horse  power  car !  He  sent  a  lot  of 
awful  rot  East!  That  wasn't  the  worst  of  it. 
You'd  think  the  Eastern  fellows  would  know  the 
difference  between  a  maverick  and  a  long-horn! 
He's  been  going  round  to  the  Eastern  editors 
giving  them  doped  stuff,  lies  dated  out  here 
written  right  down  in  New  York!  They've 
been  hammering  the  Forest  Service  for  the  last 
month!  I'll  bet  that  dough-head  never  put  a 
foot  in  National  Forests  once  while  he  was  West : 
rot  about  running  off  settlers,  and  shutting  down 
mines,  and  hampering  lumbering  operations,  and 
low  down  personal  stuff!  Anyway,  between  lies 
and  dope,  they've  got  Wayland!  He's  fired! 
I've  been  trying  to  get  hold  of  him  all  day. 
Your  old  man's  phrase,  l United  States  of  the 
World,'  kind  of  caught  on  with  the  crowd: 


THE  AWAKENING  CONTINUED  419 

they've  kind  of  wakened  up!  Funny,  thing,  the 
way  that  happens  to  a  crowd !  Your  professional 
wind-jammer  can  orate  till  he  busts  his  head,  he 
never  knows  it  has  happened  till  the  crowd  has 
got  away  from  him !  Been  a  crush  of  men  round 

Wayland  all  day,  by  G ,  I  beg  your  pardon — 

but  if  he  isn't  drowned,  'twon't  be  their  fault! 
They  are  talking  of  putting  him  up  as  a  candi 
date." 

"As  a  what?"  exclaimed  Eleanor. 

"Kun  for  Congress,"  explained  the  news  man. 

She  had  gone  quickly  forward  to  the  window, 
righting  a  shade  to  hide  the  flood  of  joy  that 
surged  up  to  her  face. 

" Excuse  me — Mr.  ^— • — I  But  I  don't  know 
your  name!" 

"My  name?  Oh,  my  name  is — Legion,"  said 
the  news  editor  dryly. 

"Well,  what  was  it  you  said  the  other  day," 
she  had  mustered  courage  to  turn  and  face  him 
again,  "what  was  it  you  said  the  other  day  about 
a  moneyed  man  backing  an  independent  paper 
through  this  fight?  Don't  you  remember,  after 
the  inquest,  Mr.  Legion?" 

He  uttered  a  shout  of  laughter,  and  she  un 
derstood  and  laughed  too. 

"Oh,  the  independent  paper  is  floundering  on 
the  edge  of  failure.  They'll  have  to  swing  in 
line  with  the  side  that  pays  them  best  at  election 
time.  One  could  buy  up  their  debts  now  for  a 
few  thousand  dollars,  perhaps  not  twenty  thou- 


420  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

sand.  Another  fifty  or  so  would  swing  her  off 
on  an  independent  tack.  There's  been  a  great 
awakening.  The  people  have  their  ears  down  to 
the  ground  for  the  coming  change,  Miss  Mac- 
Donald;  and  the  politicians  don't  know  it!  If 
we  could  swing  her  off  well,  she'd  be  a  paying 
concern  in  a  year;  then  the  politicians  could  be 

d- I  beg  your  pardon,  the  special  interests 

could  go  to  the  Devil!  That's  what  I  wanted 
to  talk  about  to  Wayland.  He's  the  winning 
horse!  We  haven't  either  of  us  got  anything 
left  to  lose  but  some  frayed  convictions,  and  by 
God,"  (this  time,  he  did  not  notice  he  had  said 
it),  "we'd  invest  'em  in  an  independent  for  all 
we're  worth !  I'm  hot;  and  I've  an  idea  Wayland 
isn't  just  at  milk  and  water  temperature;  and 
the  public  isn't;  and  we'd  have  them!  We'd 
force  the  other  crowd  to  yell  at  the  top  of  their 
voices  for  reform  inside  of  six  months.  There's 
a  lot  about  that  Eim  Eocks  affair  even  the  owners 
of  the  sheep  don 't  know ;  but  why  in  the  Devil  am 
I  telling  all  this  to  a  woman?" 

She  had  drawn  her  chair  up  to  the  table  where 
he  sat. 

"Because,  I  suppose,  the  woman  wants  to  know. 
In  case,  you  don't  see  Wayland,  do  you  mind  giv 
ing  me  the  exact  figures  about  that  independent 
paper?  We  are  all  to  go  home  together  to-mor 
row.  Let  us  put  the  figures  down.  I  can  tell  him 
the  rest  when  the  others  are  not  about;  and  do 
you  know,  I  think  I  have  heard  him  speak  of 


THE  AWAKENING  CONTINUED  421 

some  one  who  might  back  this  kind  of.  scheme?" 

Oh,  crafty  woman!  Do  you  think  the  kindly 
eyes  behind  those  strongly  focussed  glasses  did 
not  bore  in  behind  your  guarded  words?  Just 
once  did  she  interrupt  his  quick  run  of  explana 
tions. 

"Is  your  idea  to  run  an  altogether  staid  jour 
nal,  or  a  yellow  one?"  she  asked. 

He  was  plainly  taken  aback.  He  laid  down  his 
pencil. 

"If  you  were  a  man,  I  could  explain  that 
easier!" 

"Because,  I'm  done  with  the  kind  of  goodness 
that's  pickled  and  put  away  in  a  self-sealer  where 
it  won't  spoil  like  old-fashioned  jam  for  com 
pany,"  she  said. 

The  news  editor's  eyes  opened  very  wide,  in 
deed!  She  had  said  "I'm  done"  quite  as  uncon 
sciously  as  he  had  let  slip  words  inadmissable  in 
polite  converse. 

"It  isn't  piety  done  up  in  homoeopathic  pills  the 
world  wants,"  she  went  on. 

"No,  it's  punch,"  he  broke  in;  "and  what's  the 
use  of  dickering  with  a  little  two-for-a-cent  high 
brow,  superior,  exclusive,  self-righteous  rag  of 
a  daily  that  will  reach  only  a  handful  of  sissy 
people?  Democracy  is  here;  and  it's  here  for 
keeps,  the  rule  of  the  many  good  or  bad;  and  it's 
as  your  old  parson  said  in  the  court  room,  it's 
going  to  be  the  United  States  of  the  World. 
What's  the  use  of  issuing  a  rag  sheet  that  will 


422     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

preach  to  a  little  parlorful  of  sissies  and  high 
brows?  You've  got  to  get  the  crowd,  and  to 
educate  'em  up  to  self-government,  to  pelt  'em 
to  a  pulp  with  facts!  You've  got  to  get  'em  if 
you  take  them  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  Miss 
MacDonald!  While  the  churches  and  the  teach 
ers  and  the  preachers  sit  back  self-superior  and 
self-sufficient,  Miss  MacDonald,  where 's  the 
crowd  1  They  're  out  in  the  street !  You  've  got  to 
get  'em!  You've  got  to  get  the  facts  before  'em! 
People  curse  the  yellow  journals!  All  right! 
But  they  reach  an  audience  of  a  million  a  day; 
every  one  of  them;  and  your  self-superior  jour 
nals  don't  touch  ten-thousand!  Miss  MacDonald, 
which  is  having  the  telling  influence,  for  good 
or  evil?  Which  is  getting  the  crowd?  Oh,  I 
know  they  publish  pictures  of  pugilists'  big  toes 
and  base  ball  pitchers'  thumbs  the  size  of  a  half 
page;  but  if  I  could  ram  a  moral  truth  or  a  hard 
fact  down  the  fool-public's  throat  on  the  very 
next  page  by  advertising  it  with  a  pugilist's  big 
toe,  I'd  do  it — you  bet!  I'd  take  a  leaf  out  of 
the  Devil's  note  book  and  go  him  one  better! 
You  ask  whether  I'd  publish  a  yellow  journal? 
Miss  MacDonald,  if  I  could  get  the  facts  of  ex 
actly  what  is  going  on  in  this  country  before  the 
public,  I  wouldn't  publish  'em  yellow!  I'd  pub 
lish  truth  bloody  red!" 

When   the   Williams   and   Matthews    came   in 
from  the  missionary  meeting,  Eleanor  was  stand- 


THE  AWAKENING  CONTINUED  423 

ing  under  the  centre  light  leaning  against  the 
table  with  her  back  to  the  door. 

" Feeling  better,  dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Williams. 

"So  much  better  that  I'm  going  to  bed  to  sleep 
every  minute  for  the  first  night  for  a  week." 

"Surely,"  cried  Williams  clapping  his  hands. 
"A  MacDonald  never  had  nerves." 

Matthews  was  trying  to  read  her  face  as  she 
shook  hands  saying  good-night. 

"No,"  she  answered  his  look,  shaking  her  head, 
"I  must  decide  for  myself,  Mr.  Matthews." 

The  three  stood  talking  in  the  room  she  had 
left. 

"Do  you  think  we  ought  to  have  told  her?" 
asked  Mrs.  Williams  solicitously. 

"No!  Leave  Wayland  V  tell  her  himself  t'- 
morrow!  A  make  no  doubt  that  buckboard 
won't  hold  five  people!  Is  it  six  o'clock  we  set 
out  ?  A  'm  longin '  for  m '  own  wee  uns ! ' ' 

"One  thing,"  declared  Williams,  throwing  him 
self  on  a  chair,  "if  Wayland  runs,  I'm  going  to 
stump  it  for  him!  We've  got  to  get  busy,  Mat 
thews!  The  old  order  changeth!  We've  got  to 
keep  up  with  the  procession!" 

If  you  had  not  known  her  utter  conservatism 
as  to  all  things  pertaining  to  women,  you  could 
not  appreciate  the  response  of  the  missionary's 
wife.  (She  was  an  ultra-anti-suffragette.) 

"I  am  sure,  my  dear,"  she  cried,  "I  know  a 
couple  of  hundred  people  on  our  summer  circuit 
in  the  Upper  Pass  that  I  could  make  vote  right." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    UNITED   STATES   OF    THE    WORLD 

"Wayland,  for  a  man  who's  had  his  head  cut 
off,  you  look  uncommon  joyous,  tho'  you're  a  bit 
white  about  the  chops." 

"Had  a  shave, "  answered  Wayland  dryly. 

The  yellow  buckboard  was  rattling  over  thk 
pressed  brick  pavement  of  Smelter  City  towards 
the  suburbs.  Williams  was  in  the  front  seat  with 
Matthews,  who  was  driving.  Eleanor  and  Mrs. 
Williams  were  in  the  second  seat,  with  Wayland 
standing  behind  as  he  had  stood  that  night  going 
up  to  the  Eim  Eocks.  Behind  trotted  two  range 
ponies  with  empty  saddles. 

"I  thought,  perhaps,  you'd  prefer  driving  out 
beyond  the  suburbs,"  he  had  explained. 
"There's  a  good  trail  up  to  the  hog's  back  op 
posite  the  Brule." 

They  watched  her  leap  down  from  the  buck- 
board  and  mount  the  saddle,  a  little  awkward  at 
first  whether  to  put  the  right  knee  fore  or  aft, 
from  her  Eastern  training  to  a  side  saddle;  and 
side  saddles  in  the  range  country  are  rare  as 
low  neck  gowns  and  tuxedo  coats;  but  once  she 
had  caught  the  far  stirrup,  riding  was  riding. 

424 


THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  THE  WORLD     425 

She  had  the  pace,  and  the  two  figures  loped  off 
up  the  burn  for  the  hill  known  as  the  Brule,  Way- 
land  turning  and  waving  his  hat. 

"Now  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  your  soul,  Wil 
liams.  This  ride  will  settle  it ;  an'  A'm  not  darin' 
t'  hope  which  way  it  goes!  A'm  not  keen  to  go 
back  empty-handed  with  yon  little  old  lady  pay  in' 
m'  expenses  heavy  an'  generous;  but  yet — but 
yet—" 

"Yet  what?"  asked  Mrs.  Williams,  leaning  for 
ward  between  the  two  men. 

"Th'  great  joy  comes  only  once;  an'  when  it 
cam'  t'  me,  A  put  a  handspike  thro'  it,  an'  kept 
it." 

He  had  come  to  her  that  morning  with  a  look 
on  his  face  that  she  had  not  dreamed  a  human 
face  could  wear.  She  wondered  if  all  men  cruci 
fied  for  right  won  such  joy.  And  he  did  not 
tread  earth.  He  trod  air.  Eleanor  could  not 
trust  her  eyes  to  meet  his.  She  felt  their  light 
burning  to  the  centre  of  her  soul.  What  was  it? 
Was  it  renunciation?  The  thought  turned  her 
faint.  Her  determination  to  break  his  resolu 
tion  seemed  the  cheap  obtrusion  of  egotism  on 
the  great  mission  of  a  devoted  life.  Then,  go 
ing  up  the  hog's  back  trail  along  the  rim  of  the 
Ridge,  they  were  facing  the  Holy  Cross  Moun 
tain.  The  glint  of  the  morning  sun  on  the  far 
snows  shone  like  diamonds,  a  tiared  jeweled  thing 
poised  in  mid-heaven  like  a  crown  held  by  invis- 


426  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

ible  hands;  the  base  of  the  lower  mountain  out 
lines  melting  and  losing  edge  in  the  purple  shad 
ows;  the  crown  only,  shining  diademed,  winged 
with  opal  light. 

' i Look  Dick,"  she  said  pointing  with  her  rid 
ing  crop,  "do  you  remember  the  night  on  the 
Kidge?  Do  you  remember  about  the  snow  flakes 
massing  to  the  avalanche!  It  has — hasn't  it? 
The  Nation  has  wakened  up." 

Wayland  looked  ahead.  He  couldn't  answer. 
'Bemember  the  night  on  the  Bidge?'  He  had  a 
lump  in  his  throat  and  an  ache  at  his  heart  from 
never  letting  himself  remember  it.  By  that 
strange  perversity,  which  we  all  know  in  our 
selves,  he  couldn't  talk.  The  hundred  and  one 
things  he  had  wanted  to  ask,  died  on  his  lips  in 
a  dumbness  of  gladness.  Of  course,  you,  dear 
reader,  on  the  return  of  a  husband  or  wife 
(prospective  or  present),  on  the  sudden  appear 
ance  of  friend  or  kith  have  never  been  similarly 
affected.  You  didn't  forget  the  questions  you 
had  meant  to  ask  till  thousands  of  miles  again 
separated  you. 

It  was  good  to  leave  the  Valley  road  and  go 
into  seclusion  and  shelter  on  the  Forest  trail ;  for 
a  hurricane  September  wind  was  blowing,  the 
kind  of  Western  wind  that  the  Eastern  woman 
with  a  big  hat  thinks  is  possessed  by  ten  thou 
sand  devils;  the  kind  of  wind  that  the  Eastern 
office  man  with  sensitive  eyes  curses  with  tears 
that  are  not  grief;  the  kind  of  wind  that  makes 


THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  THE  WORLD     427 

the  Westerner  put  screw  nails  in  Ms  hat  and  look 
out  for  the  fire  guard  round  wheat,  stock  and 
timber. 

Such  a  different  home-going  he  had  planned 
from  this  visitation  of  dumb  devils  that  obsessed 
them  both!  He  used  to  dream  at  night  in  the 
Desert  of  the  day,  perhaps,  coming  when  they 
should  set  out  together  adventuring  a  life  joy 
in  the  Forests ;  his  Forests ;  when  he  would  show 
her  the  golden  cottonwoods  and  the  pale  birches 
nursing  the  pineries  to  strong  maturity;  and  the 
fire  blisters  on  the  firs;  and  the  sugar  blisters 
on  the  sugar  pines;  and  the  rain  of  green-gray 
tempered  light  from  the  under  side  of  the  fune 
real  hemlocks ;  and  the  park  like  glades  of  the  won 
derfully  straight  and  serried  soldier  ranks  of  the 
engleman  spruce  and  the  lodge-pole  pines;  and 
the  larches  yellow  as  gold  dust  to  the  touch  of 
the  alchemist  autumn.  He  wanted  to  bring  out 
his  violin  some  day  with  her  and  see  if  they  could 
catch  the  exact  tone  and  pitch  of  the  pines,  when 
they  began  harping  those  age-old  melodies  of 
Pan :  they  were  harping  them  to-day  in  the  high 
wind;  he  was  sure  it  was  the  same  as  the  bass 
undertone  of  a  big  orchestra.  Had  she  ever  no 
ticed  the  way  the  seeds  came  fluffing  out  of  the 
cinnamon  cones  and  the  asters  and  the  golden 
rod  and  the  fire  flower  in  September,  for  all  the 
world  like  fairies  sailing  pixie  parachutes?  Peo 
ple  said  that  autumn  was  sad,  it  presaged  death! 
Did  it?  A  Forester  did  not  see  it  so;  he  saw  the 


428  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

triumphal  procession  of  the  years  lighted  to  its 
consummation  by  the  flaming  torches  of  ten  thou 
sand  golden  twinkling  gay,  recklessly  gay  flowers 
and  trees — the  cottonwood  and  the  poplar  and  the 
larch,  the  cone  flower  and  the  golden  rod  and  the 
aster!  But  to-day,  he  could  not  say  a  word. 
They  were  no  longer  his  Forests.  He  had  been 
cast  out  from  his  life  work — the  continuity  of  a 
National  Life  Work  broken — because  he  had  dared 
to  interfere  with  the  petty  plans  of  peanut  pol 
iticians  and  public  plunderers. 

"It  is  level  here!  Let  us  gallop  out  of  this 
bare  burn  to  the  shelter  of  the  evergreens/*  she 
said.  "I  don't  mind  wind,  but  I'd  just  as  soon 
get  under  cover  where  it  couldn't  lash  us  so." 

And  the  horses  came  chugging  and  breathing 
hard  up  on  the  sheltered  trail  below  the  ever 
greens.  She  reined  her  horse  to  the  slowest  of 
walks. 

"Did  you  see  the  news  editor  before  you  left 
town?"  she  asked. 

1  i  Yes,  he  came  over  to  my  hotel  last  night  about 
twelve  o'clock.  He  had  the  biggest  fool-scheme 
you  ever  heard  of  my  running  for  Congress  and 
buying  a  paper  to  boost  out  the  Eing  and  all  that ! 
Thunder,  I  don't  want  to  run!  I've  no  ax  to 
grind !  I  prefer  to  stay  a  free  lance  in  the  fight 
ing  ranks ! ' ' 

"And  do  you  think  the  fellows,  who  want  to 
run  and  have  an  ax  to  grind,  do  best  for  the 


ffHE  UNITED  STATES  OF  THE  WORLD     429 

Nation ?"  asked  Eleanor.  "Why  wouldn't  you 
run  if  the  people  demanded  it!" 

"There  is  the  plain  brutal  fact  that  it  takes 
money,"  explained  Wayland.  "I  haven't  the 
ambition ;  and  I  have  less  money.  I  haven 't  more 
than  will  set  me  up  on  some  little  one-horse  ir 
rigation  farm.  Oh,  I  know  some  fool  had  been 
filling  him  up  about  my  having  rich  friends  East, 
who  would  put  up  money  for  this  campaign  and 
finance  a  new  kind  of  newspaper  for  the  Valley! 
I'd  like  to  knock  the  fool's  head  off  who  told  him 
that!  It's  all  a  lie!  Of  course,  I  knew  lots  of 
moneyed  chaps  at  Yale;  but  thunderation,  I'd 
have  to  want  public  office  a  good  deal  harder  than 
I  do  to  go  round  cap  in  hand!  Why,  Eleanor,  a 
fellow  who  would  do  that  wouldn't  be  worth 
shucks  to  represent  the  people." 

"Did  you  tell  him  that?"  asked  Eleanor. 

"Yes  and  more!  I  told  him  he  was  clean 
plumb  fool-crazy!  Why,  Eleanor,  when  that  fel 
low  was  fired  out  of  his  job  yesterday  morning, 
he  hadn't  ten  dollars  ahead  in  the  world!  I'm 
not  a  bank,  myself;  but  then  I  haven't  a  wife 
and  kiddies.  Do  you  know,  Eleanor,  that  fellow 
had  more  pluck  than  I  would  have  had  under  the 
same  circumstances?  I  couldn't  let  the  results 
of  this  kind  of  a  fight  come  down  on  a  woman." 

"What  did  he  say  when  you  told  him  he  was 
crazy?" 

"Oh,  went  locoed  clean  out  of  his  head,  kicked 


430     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

my  hat  off  the  bed  post,  took  out  a  fiver,  said, 
'Wayland,  that's  my  last!  I'll  bet  it  a  hundred 
odd  you  do  the  very  thing  I'm  outlining  to 
night.'  " 

"It  was  a  safe  bet,"  said  Eleanor.  "He  had 
come  to  see  me  before  he  went  to  you !  I  was  the 
person,  who  told  him  you  had  a  friend,  who  would 
put  up  the  money.  I  didn't  tell  him  who  the 
friend  was;  for  it  happens  to  be  myself.  No: 
you  needn't  blow  up,  Dick;  or  drop  dead  of  apo 
plexy!  He  didn't  come  to  tell  me,  or  ask  a 
woman's  money!  He  had  come  hunting  you;  and 
I  pumped  it  out  of  him.  He's  a  brick  not  to  men 
tion  my  name  to  you.  I  like  that  in  a  man;  and 
I  am  going  to  do  it,  Dick;  and  you  needn't  blow 
up  with  rage !  You  can  swear  if  it  would  relieve 
pressure;  but  I  am  going  to  do  it!  I  am  going  to 
do  it  at  once!  Don't  you  see  what  a  cowardly 
foolish  thing  it  would  be  of  you  to  give  up  and 
slink  into  a  hole  just  because  you're  defeated? 
It's  just  what  you  said  would  happen  that  night 
on  the  Eidge.  Don't  you  remember,  you  said  it 
was  bound  to  be  a  losing  fight;  and  I  said  it 
didn't  matter  a  bit  if  a  man  were  crucified  long 
as  the  cause  won  out?  Well,  you  sent  me  the 
note  saying  you  had  set  out  on  the  Trail  and 
would  never  quit  till  you  got  the  Man  Higher 
Up.  How  are  you  going  to  get  the  Man  Higher 
Up  if  you  don't  go  right  after  him  in  the  House 
and  the  Senate?  They've  crucified  you;  and  it's 
going  to  be  the  making  of  you.  Men  don't  de- 


THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  THE  WORLD      431 

stroy  an  opponent  unless  they  fear  him!  If  he's 
a  fool,  they  give  him  rope  enough  to  hang  him 
self;  but  if  they  fear  him,  they  slander  him  and 
blacken  him  and  misrepresent  him  and  try  to 
destroy  him!  'Well,  theyVe  done  all  that  to  you 
and  tried  to  destroy  you ;  and  instead  of  destroy 
ing  you,  they've  only  made  the  people  call  on  you 
for  a  leader!  Don't  you  see  what  a  cowardly 
thing  it  would  be  to  slink  away  now  because  you 
are  defeated!  Why,  that's  the  very  time  a  man 
can't  afford  to  quit,  and  still  call  himself  a  man. 
No,  don't  try  to  stop  me!  I  lay  awake  all  last 
night  thinking  it  out!  They'll  not  have  a  chance 
to  call  you  a  woman-made  man!  I'll  place  a  cer 
tain  amount  with  my  lawyer  for  Mr.  Williams. 
You  know  my  father  always  helped  the  Mission 
School  more  or  less;  and  a  woman  is  supposed 
to  be  soft  on  Missions.  Mr.  Williams  will  loan  it 
to  the  news  editor.  Only,  I  may  as  well  tell  you, 
Dick,  you  are  not  going  to  be  allowed  to  stop 
now !  You  wrote  me  that  a  person  couldn  't  stab 
certain  things  to  life  and  then  expect  them  to  lie 
quiet  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  That  cuts 
both  ways.  Men  are  pretty  good  egotists;  but 
I  wonder  if  you  ever  thought  what  that  means 
with  me,  with  the  people  you  have  prodded  up 
to  resent  the  Eing  in  the  Valley  here.  Do  you 
know  Dick,  if  you  would  quit  now,  I'd  despise 
myself  for  ever  having  loved  you." 

Wayland  could  not  answer.     His  eyes  had  filled. 
He  rode  with  his  hand  on  the  pommel  of  the  sad- 


432  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

die.  Her  words  had  fallen  like  whiplashes.  It 
was  true.  You  could  not  cut  out  and  disconnect 
with  life.  He  had  dreamed  of  this  last  ride  as  a 
sort  of  mid-heaven  ecstasy;  and  behold,  instead 
of  love's  dream,  the  lifting  kick  to  a  limp  spine. 
If  only  one's  friends  would  oftener  give  us  that 
lifting  kick  instead  of  the  softening  sympathy! 
If  only  they  would  brace  our  back  bone  instead  of 
our  wish  bone! 

Then,  she  turned  to  him  with  a  sudden  tender 
ness:  "What  a  beast  I  am  to  speak  so  to  you 
when  you've  just  had  the  blow  of  public  dis 
missal  on  top  of  five  years'  continuous  grilling," 
and  he  saw  that  the  flame  in  her  cheeks,  in  her 
eyes,  was  not  anger  but  a  gust  of  passionate  love. 

"I  can't  thank  you  Eleanor,"  he  said.  "This 
is  beyond  thanks." 

"And  your  old  editor  man  was  so  funny  about 
it,"  she  went  on.  "You  know  Dick,  I  think  he 
had  really  come  round  to  the  hotel  to  have  a  con 
solation  drink  with  you;  and  he  almost  let  it  out; 
but  just  at  the  last  moment  he  changed  the  word 
and  said  he'd  come  "to  shake"  with  you  on  be 
ing  dismissed  together. ' ' 

"When  do  you  leave?"  asked  Wayland  dully. 

"I  don't  leave!  I  haven't  the  slightest  inten 
tion  of  ever  leaving  this  Valley!  Why,  Dick, 
would  you  have  me  exchange  this  splendid  big 
free  new  life  where  men  and  women  do  things,  for 
a  parish  existence — working  slippers  for  a  curate 
and  talking  dress,  Dick — dress  like  the  Colonel's 


THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  THE  WORLD     433 

wife,  and  chronicling  what  Shakespeare  calls 
*  small  beer'!  I  don't  intend  ever  to  leave  the 
Valley!  Tennyson  sung  of  'the  federation  of  the 
world,'  Dick!  You  and  I  are  seeing  it  in  the 
making!  Think  of  the  fun  of  my  staying  and 
seeing  it  and  having  a  finger  in  the  making,  just 
a  little  quiet  finger  that  nobody  knows  about  but 
you  and  me!  United  States  of  the  World,  Dick; 
and  you  are  going  after  the  Man  Higher  Up  just 
as  you  went  after  those  blackguards  into  the 
Desert."  She  laughed  joyously,  joyous  as  a 
child,  swinging  out  her  arms  to  the  sweep  of  the 
roaring  Forest  wind.  " Don't  look  shocked.  I'll 
not  stay  on  alone  at  the  Ranch  House  for  the 
Eookery  to  talk  about!  I'll  insist  on  the  fore 
man  marrying  an  aged  house  keeper  for  me;  or 
I'll  move  over  to  the  Mission  School;  or — Oh, 
I'll  plan  out  something;  but  I  am  not  going  to 
leave  the  West." 

Wayland  suddenly  wheeled  his  horse  across  her 
way  and  faced  her.  "So  you've  been  trouncing 
the  hide  off  my  back  for  an  hour  or  more  to  make 
me  believe  all  this  doesn't  mean  renunciation? 
They  splashed  their  filthy  hogwash  on  your  skirts 
to  foil  me ;  and  that  was  nothing !  The  fight  was 
to  go  on  just  the  same.  I  was  not  to  stop 
because  of  any  injury  that  came  to  you.  Then, 
they  assassinated  your  father;  and  you  know  as 
well  as  I  do  he  was  shot  down  by  that  drunken 
Shanty  Town  sot  in  mistake  for  me ;  but  the  fight 
is  to  go  on  just  the  same.  That,  too,  is  nothing 


434  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

if  the  cause  be  won.  Now,  you  take  a  slice  of 
your  fortune  and  slam  it  into  the  cause,  backing 
me;  and  you  renounce  everything  that  gives 
meaning  to  life  for  a  woman,  pretending  that  re 
nunciation  is  a  privilege — " 

44 It  is,"  interrupted  Eleanor,  "if  it  weaves  the 
thing  worth  while  into  the  warp  and  woof  of  your 
life  so  it  can  never  be  anything  but  a  part  of 
you!  Turn  your  broncho  round  here  and  ride 
along  side  of  me.  Look  at  our  Mountain  ahead ! 
It  isn't  a  Cross:  it's  a  Crown!  Do  you  think  I'm 
going  to  push  a  crown  away  from  myself  for 
the  sake  of  having  a  lot  of  flunkeys  in  a  land  I 
don't  know  bending  themselves  in  their  middle  at 
me  all  my  life?"  She  laughed  joyously,  flinging 
her  arms  wide  to  the  drive  and  toss  of  the  roll 
ing  wind  funneling  up  the  trail  on  their  backs. 
She  had  pulled  off  her  hat  and  the  wind  tossed  for 
ward  her  hair  in  a  frame  of  curls  round  an  enamel 
miniature  that  always  haunted  Wayland.  "I  love 
it,"  she  said,  "the  harder  it  blows,  the  harder  I 
want  to  ride!  You  remember  that  night  coming 
down  the  Eidge  in  the  storm?  It  was  like  Love 
and  Life !  And  smell  the  air,  Dick !  It  has  all  the 
sunbeams  of  the  summer  imprisoned,  done  up 
in  balsam  fir  and  balm  of  gilead  and  spices !  Ex 
change  this  life  in  the  open,  here,  in  the  very 
thick  of  things  doing,  for  that  ancient  tapestry 
plush  upholstery  blue-book  existence!" 

"I  can't  ask  you,  Eleanor!  I  haven't  a  thing 
on  earth  to  offer  but  a  brpken  reputation  and  a 


THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  THE  WORLD     435 

lot  of  plans  in  the  ditch !  I  ought  never  to  have 
let  you  know  I  loved  you!  I  ought  never  to 
have  let  you  care  for  me!  You  know  what 
you  think  and  you  know  what  I  think  of  a  man 
who  lets  a  woman  give  all.  He  isn't  worthy  of 
her.  You  know  you  have  never  been  out  of  my 
thoughts  day  or  night  since  I  met  you,  dear!  I 
couldn't  have  come  through  that  Desert  thing 
alive  without  you;  and  I'll  hold  you  in  my  heart 
every  day  of  my  life  till  I  die."  He  had  taken 
off  his  hat  and  kicked  the  stirrups  free  and  was 
riding  with  loose  rein. 

When  a  man  tells  a  woman  that  he  is  down 
and  out  financially  and  dare  not  ask  her  to  marry 
him,  do  you  think  there  is  an  end  of  it,  dear 
reader?  Do  you  think  a  Silenus  would  hesitate 
and  stickle  and  scruple  over  a  point  of  honor; 
though  some  of  us  have  seen  Silenus  blunder  into 
a  paradise  which  he  promptly  transformed  into 
a  sty?  And  do  you  think  the  descendant  of  the 
Man  of  the  Iron  Hand  thought  anything  less 
of  her  lover  for  refusing  to  accept  renunciation  as 
his  right!  If  Wayland  could  have  trusted  him 
self  to  look  at  her,  he  would  have  seen  that  she 
was  riding  with  a  whimsical  smile.  They  came 
to  a  bend  in  the  upward  climbing  trail  that  over 
looked  the  Valley  and  faced  the  opal  shining 
peak. 

' 'There  goes  the  buckboard,"  remarked  Way- 
land. 

"Dick,"  she  said,  "I'll  write  my  lawyer  about 


436  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

placing  the  loan  in  the  bank  at  once.  You  need 
not  lose  any  time," 

"But,  I  can't  take  that,  Eleanor!  I  haven't 
any  security  on  earth  to  offer  you. ' ' 

"Oh,  yes  you  have!  I've  thought  all  that  out, 
too.  You  have  the  very  best  security  I  ever 
want. ' ' 

'  <  What  ? '  >  asked  Wayland  incredulously.  < '  Do 
you  mean  you  trust  to  my  honesty?  Good  in 
tentions  aren't  usually  a  banking  proposition — " 

"You  will  do  as  security,"  she  said. 

Was  it  the  old  mountain  talking  again;  or  was 
it  the  break  in  her  voice?  Their  eyes  met.  He 
had  slipped  from  his  horse. 

"Don't,"  she  cried  averting  her  eyes  with  a 
tremor  in  her  voice.  "I  couldn't  bear  This  to  be 
of  Self!  If  I  were  a  man,  you'd  shake  hands 
with  me  and  call  it  a  bargain.  Look  Dick! 
We're  in  the  light  of  the  Cross!  Shake  hands 
with  me!  Is  it  a  bargain?" 

His  hands  closed  over  both  of  hers.  There 
were  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  did  not  break  out 
with  any  of  the  wild  terms  that  had  clamored  and 
clamored  for  utterance  these  weeks  past. 
He  did  not  say  any  of  the  things  that  men  and 
women  say  at  such  times  in  books  and  plays. 
They  paused  so,  she  on  horseback,  he  stand 
ing  at  her  side,  on  the  crest  of  the  Eidge 
gazing  down  on  the  Valley  in  the  light  of  the 
Cross. 


THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  THE  WORLD     437 

"So  my  old  Mountain  is  talking  to  you,  too!" 
she  said.  "Do  you  remember,  Dick?" 

"It's  so  God-blessed  beautiful,  Eleanor,"  he 
answered.  "I  can't  thank  you!  If  I  lived  a 
thousand  years,  I  couldn't  live  out  my  thanks.  I 
could  only  put  up  a  bluff  of  trying." 

"Dick  the  nth,"  she  laughed  whimsically, 
"Dick  the  nth  for  the  United  States  of  the 
World." 

Suddenly  he  looked  up  at  her.  The  lashes  did 
not  veil  quick  enough.  He  caught  the  veil  wide 
open.  He  had  thought  he  knew  before.  Now, 
he  knew  that  he  had  but  touched  the  outer  mar 
gin  of  her  love,  of  the  wealth  of  her  nature,  of 
the  reach  and  grasp  of  her  spirit.  She  felt  the 
grip  of  the  strong  hands  closed  over  hers. 

"Mine  alder-lief est, "  he  whispered  in  the  old 
clean  unused  phrase. 

"Is  it  a  bargain?" 

"Bargain?"  repeated  Wayland. 

Then,  they  both  laughed.  She  had  him  at  such 
an  obvious  disadvantage.  I  do  not  intend  to  tell 
how  far  the  afternoon  shadows  had  stretched 
out  when  Eleanor  exclaimed  with  a  jump ;  ' '  Dick : 
the  buckboard  is  out  of  sight."  I  do  not  think 
either  of  them  as  lovers  of  horses  ever  offered 
adequate  reason  for  having  ridden  their  bronchos 
such  a  hard  pace  up  grade  the  last  ten  miles  that 
the  ponies  came  down  the  Eidge  to  the  Valley 
road  a  lather  of  sweat. 


438  FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

"You  are  sure,"  he  had  asked  as  they  came 
out  of  the  evergreens,  "that  you'll  never  regret?" 

"Mr.  Matthews  intended  to  leave  to-morrow, 
Dick.  Do  you  think  you  could  persuade  him  to 
stay  over  a  day?" 

It  was  Mrs.  Williams  who  sensed  something 
unusual  as  the  ponies  came  down  one  of  the  by 
paths  from  the  Eidge. 

"My  dear,  look  at  their  faces!  I  do  believe  it 
has!"  Then  to  Eleanor,  "Will  you  come  in  the 
rig?  Are  you  tired?" 

"I  think  I  shall,"  said  Eleanor. 

"You've  ridden  y'r  nags  uncommon  hard,  Way- 
land,"  observed  Matthews. 

Eleanor  had  ascended  to  the  back  seat.  Way- 
land  had  tied  the  bridle  rein  of  her  horse  to  the 
rear  and  was  riding  abreast  of  the  front  seat. 

"I  wish  you  could  make  it  convenient  to  put 
off  your  departure  for  a  day  or  two, ' '  began  Way- 
land,  very  red. 

"Eh?  What's  that?"  cried  Matthews;  and 
when  he  looked  to  the  back  seat  Eleanor  and  the 
little  gray  haired  lady  in  plain  back  mourning 
bonnet  were  going  on  as  fool-women  will,  and 
Williams  was  risking  a  fall  out  leaning  over  the 
seat  shaking  hands  with  Wayland.  Somebody 
was  flourishing  a  red  cotton  handkerchief ;  two  for 
ten  cents,  they  sell  them  in  Smelter  City. 

It  was  Williams  who  put  a  check  to  what 
Eleanor  called  a  'loadful  of  idiots.'  "The  wind 


THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  THE  WORLD     439 

is  blowing  towards  the  snow,"  he  said;  "but  I 
don't  like  that  column  of  smoke  rising  from  the 
Homestead  slope  in  this  high  gale.  That  Irish 
sot  went  home  roaring  drunk  by  the  stage  yester 
day.  What  will  you  bet  the  fire  didn't  start  in 
the  timber  slash?" 

Wayland  gave  only  one  look.  "It  isn't  my 
job  any  more,"  he  said,  "but  I  can't  stand  see 
ing  that." 

He  was  off  at  a  gallop.  They  saw  the  sparks 
strike  from  the  stones  as  he  turned  up  the  Ridge 
Trail. 

A  week  had  passed.  The  fire  had  been  put  out 
with  little  damage  except  from  O'Finnigan's  tim 
ber  slash  to  the  lake  beneath  the  upper  snows.  A 
new  Eanger  was  in  charge.  As  for  O'Finnigan, 
like  Calamity,  he  had  dropped  as  completely  from 
the  Valley's  knowledge  as  if  the  earth  had  swal 
lowed  him.  The  Valley,  in  fact,  had  given  small 
thought  to  the  mad  squaw  or  the  drunken  Irish 
man.  The  Valley  had  had  other  things  to  talk 
about.  There  was  the  coming  fall  campaign,  and 
Wayland 's  name  as  reform  candidate,  and  Way- 
land's  quiet  marriage  to  the  daughter  of  the  dead 
sheep  king.  Eleanor  and  Wayland  had  gone 
round  through  the  Pass  to  the  Lake  Behind  the 
Peak,  where  he  had  dreamed  what  form  of  tri- 
angulation  thoughts  must  take  from  the  star  in 
the  water  to  the  star  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Holy  Cross;  where  the  little  waves  lipped  and 


440  FKEEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDEKNESS 

lisped  and  laved  the  reeds ;  where  they  two  could 
drink  and  drink  unseen  of  the  joy  of  the  waters 
of  life  before  the  opening  of  the  political  battle. 

"Make  him  tell  y'  of  all  that  happened  in  th' 
Pass  when  A  was  with  him,"  Matthews  had 
called  as  they  rode  away  up  the  narrowing  trail 
to  the  jubliant  shouting  of  the  canyon  waters,  the 
little  mule  leading  the  pack  ponies. 

Mrs.  Williams  stood  on  the  upper  piazza  of  the 
Mission  School  waving  and  waving.  The  cotton- 
woods  were  raining  down  showers  of  gold;  and 
the  pines  were  clicking  their  gypsy  tambourines ; 
and  the  golden  torches  of  countless  yellow  autumn 
flowers  lighted  the  triumphal  procession  of  the 
year  to  its  consummation.  Against  the  opal 
crown  of  the  Holy  Cross  Mountain,  the  yellowed 
larches  tossed  flaming  torches  to  the  very  sky. 

"They  seem  to  be  riding  away  to  a  world  of 
dreams,"  said  the  little  lady  in  black. 

Mr.  Bat  Brydges  and  Senator  Moyese  walked 
slowly  and  reflectively  past  the  Eange  Cabin  to 
wards  the  charred  burn  and  timber  slash  of  0'- 
Finnigan's  abandoned  homestead. 

"It's  that  damned  rant  the  old  fellow  let  off  in 
the  court  room,"  said  Brydges. 

"Bant  doesn't  win  elections,  Brydges!  It  has 
to  be  fought  out !  Sooner  we  accept  the  challenge 
and  put  'em  to  bed  for  good,  the  better !  Money 
talks,  Brydges!" 


THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  THE  WORLD     441 

1  i  But  that 's  just  it,  Senator !  Money  does  talk ; 
and  some  body's  money  has  talked  when  the  In 
dependent  sold  out  to  Joe!" 

"Fool  and  his  money  soon  parted,  Brydges! 
Only,  in  this  case,  I've  a  suspicion  it's  a  Her! 
Never  fear  a  known  enemy,  Brydges!  It's  the 
unknown  factors  you  want  to  look  out  for!  F'r 
instance,  there  is  this  sot  of  a  drunken  Shanty 
Town  Irishman?  What's  become  of  him?  Did 
he  burn  himself,  when  he  set  fire  to  the  slash?" 

They  had  paused  opposite  that  fallen  giant 
which  bridged  the  Gully  where  Wayland  had  laid 
the  saplings  to  cross  to  the  Eim  Eocks. 

"That's  a  fine  one;  the  fire  didn't  bring  that 
one  down!  Been  cheesy  heart  wood!  Wonder 
who  placed  the  saplings  for  a  bridge?  Think  I'll 
cross  and  go  down  to  the  ranch  by  the  Eim  Eocks, 
Brydges!" 

"Then,  excuse  me,  Mr.  Senator!  I  go  back 
tMs  way!  Napoleon  had  aversion  to  mice!  I've 
an  aversion  to  wire  walking." 

He  saw  Moyese,  hands  in  pockets,  stroll  along 
the  great  log  bridging  the  Gully.  Mid-way,  he 
paused  as  if  in  contempt  of  Brydges '  timidity. 

"Bark  gives  a  little,"  he  said,  pressing  his 
whole  weight  up  and  down  flexibly. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  do  that,  Senator,"  called 
Brydges.  "Trunk  looks  to  me  as  if  the  fire  had 
run  through  the  punk!" 

Even  as  he  spoke,  he  saw  it  happen,  Calamity 


'442     FREEBOOTERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

glide  on  the  far  end  of  the  log,  utter  a  maniacal 
laugh,  throw  her  shawl  to  the  winds  and  bound 
forward. 

"Go  back,  you  she-devil!  Look  out,  Senator! 
That  log  won't  stand  the  weight  of  two — " 

There  was  the  flash  of  a  knife  in  her  hand. 
Moyese  had  jumped  from  the  stabbing  onslaught 
— when  he  lost  his  balance:  the  tree  crunched, 
bent,  doubled  like  a  jack  knife,  and  plunged  in 
a  swirl  of  smoke  and  dust  to  the  bottom  of  the 
Gully.  It  had  been  burnt  through  to  the  green 
mossed  outer  bark.  When  Brydges  looked  fear 
fully  over  the  bank,  the  Indian  woman  had  crushed 
below  the  log;  and  Moyese  lay  very  still,  his  face 
to  the  sky,  his  left  hand  in  his  pocket,  his  right 
hand  thrown  out  as  if  to  ward  a  blow,  gashed  and 
bloody,  whether  from  rock  or  knife  cut,  one  could 
not  tell. 

I  do  not  intend  to  repeat  the  "Smelter  City 
Herald 's"  flare  head  announcement  of  "the  de 
plorable  and  tragical  accident  that  cut  short  one  of 
the  most  promising  political  careers  in  the  United 
States."  "Senator  Moyese  had  long  been  accus 
tomed  to  search  the  mountains  in  autumn  for 
seeds  and  roots  of  specimen  flowers  for  his 
herbarium,  of  which  he  had  made  a  hobby.  That 
reckless  disregard  of  danger  for  which  he  was 
famous,  etc.,  etc."  You'll  find  the  salient  feat 
ures  of  it  all  in  "Who's  Who."  Pad  that  out 
with  Mr.  Bat  Brydges'  imagination  and  devotion; 


THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  THE  WORLD     443 

and  you  will  have  an  idea  of  the  sorrow  that  con 
vulsed  the  "Smelter  City  Herald." 

The  opposition  paper  opined  "He  would  hardly 
have  retained  the  confidence  of  the  Valley  had 
he  lived;"  and  the  "Independent" — our  old 
friend,  the  news  editor — paid  him  the  straight 
out  from  the  shoulder  compliment,  "that  he  had 
died  as  he  had  lived,  an  uncompromising  game 
fighter  to  the  end." 

What  became  of  Mr.  Bat  Brydges?  Bless  you, 
my  friend,  do  you  need  to  ask?  He  is  shouting 
for  Eeform  as  loudly  as  his  kind  always  shout 
when  the  tide  turns.  What  became  of  the  scandal 
story  I  What  becomes  of  any  scandal  story? 
What  becomes  of  the  skunk's  contribution  to  the 
gayety  of  nations? — Buried  in  the  memory  of 
decent  folks,  long  ago  and  forgotten :  in  the  mem 
ory  of  indecent  folk,  still  hauled  forth  and  re 
peated  and  fondled  under  the  tongue. 


THE  END 


Laut,   Agnes  C 


fre 


Thu   fruebooer 
wilderness 


M151320 


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